A Call to Arms
by Silver Bones in a Green Sauce
Summary: This is War. Years had passed since they had last had visitors. He didn't know why they were back-or why they were attacking everything in sight but Eric Cartman's house. Aliens, zombies, blood, gore, character death. War. Slash. Creek. Chip. Kyman. A tiny bit of Dip.
1. Preface

_This is a call to arms. Gather soldiers._

They came back when he was sixteen.

He hadn't believed it at first, of course; he figured that Butters, who was just as naive as he had been when they were kids, had been lied to and was freaking out over nothing. But they couldn't brush the boy off, and he finally got them to look outside—and there they were, up in the sky. There was a difference this time though, an obvious one that he noticed right off—there were a lot more of them. The sky was covered; even out in the distance, they were filling it, hiding the clouds. He was too shocked to be amazed that they hadn't heard the _'hum'_ coming from the ships, but if he hadn't been, he would have rationalized that it had been because Cartman's television had been turned up loudly. It would be Stan to point out later that their spaceships weren't _making_ any sound.

They had snuck up on the boys—on the whole _town—_and they were taking over.

"Kyle, they h-hit your house."

_Time to go to war._

The house wasn't demolished when he reached it, wasn't a pile of rubble—it was on _fire. _The sight of it stopped him in his tracks, his friends stopping behind him, but when he saw his father, he took off again.

"Dad!"

Gerald, who had been watching his house burn to the ground, turned at the sound of his oldest son's voice. Relief flooded through him; he was sure Kyle had been at a friend's house, but when his son didn't show up after the attacks started, he was sure something had happened. He had been too shocked, too stuck in _grief_, to move from his position though, thoughts of his child leaving his mind when he realized. . . . when he realized. . .

She was gone.

Gerald himself was physically fine. He had been working on a case, blocks away from his home, when the attacks had started. He had ran through the streets, passing people with limbs missing, people on fire, trying to get back to his family. He made it home without being hit, but by the time he finally got there, it was too late.

"Kyle!"

Arms went around his son's shoulders; Kyle's went around his back. His son was fine. His son was. . . His son needed to know. But how do you tell a child that he'd never see his mother again? How was he supposed to—how was he supposed to _live _without his _wife_?

"Dad, where's Mom? Where's Ike?"

He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. He wouldn't let his son see him crying. He needed to be strong. He needed to. He needed . . . He needed. . .

"Mom didn't make it, Kyle. She was—she was in the house when it happened. I tried—I tried to get her out, but she was already—it was too late, Kyle."

He shook.

He had trouble breathing.

He broke.

"Oh, Kyle, your mother is. . . She's gone, Kyle. She's gone."

Kyle could feel his father's uneven breaths against his neck, could feel the tears hitting his skin. He could also feel a stab of grief hitting him in the heart, in the stomach. His eyes were wide, and he quickly wiped away the tears pooling in them; he would deal with his mother's death later. Like so many times in the past, _he _would have to be the strong one. He needed to worry about the remaining members of the family.

"Dad, what about Ike? Where's _Ike_?"

Kyle could see his house, still burning, over his dad's shoulder, but he couldn't focus on it. He pulled back and began to shake Gerald, repeating the question until he got an answer.

"He's fine, Kyle. He wasn't in the house. He was at—"

There was a pause as he tried to remember. Where had his youngest son been? At someone's house. The roar of the fire and his grief were making it hard to focus though, and he couldn't remember—

"Dad, _where_?"

"—Filmore's house. He was at his friend Filmore's house."

He became rigid.

"Dad, we passed that house. It had been hit."

_This is a battle song, brothers and sisters._

The house was still on fire when they reached it. Kyle started to run at it, all thoughts of his own safely abandoned in the hopes that he could still save his baby brother, but Stan grabbed him around the middle to stop him.

"Kyle, stop! Stop! It's already caving in! There's no way—"

He elbowed Stan in the gut, but his friend didn't let go. Didn't Stan understand? Wouldn't he do the same for Shelly? Stan had a family of his own, he didn't need to—Kyle stopped struggling though, his eyes catching sight of something—someone—crawling out from under one of the cars in the driveway.

"Ike? Ike!"

There was another body coming out after his brother, Fimore's, but he didn't notice it.

Ike was safe. He was alive.

_Time to go to war._

They were huddled in Cartman's basement, not knowing where else to go; the houses surrounding the place had already been hit, and the attackers had, for some reason, passed Eric's up.

"We shouldn't be here. It's too out in the open."

"They _ignored _his house, dude. It had to be for a reason."

"Yeah."

"Besides, it's stocked with food, and do you really want to go back _out there_?"

"I-I sure don't.

"You assholes aren't eating my food."

"Stop being such a selfish dick, dude."

The children, save Shelly, who was sitting a corner with the adults, were seated around the table Eric kept in the room. He was seated at the head of it with Kenny to his right and Stan at his left; Kyle was at the end. Between them were various other children.

"Kahl, this is my house, and I _can_ throw you out."

"You wouldn't do that, Cartman."

"Y-yeah, Eric."

"It's _my _house, and I can—"

"Stop it, you guys. We need to talk about what happened. We need to figure out what to do."

"They're gonna kill us all! Gah!"

"They are not."

"They could."

"They snuck up on us; they planned this."

"Oh man!"

"Calm down. We need to think rationally about this."

"About aliens?"

"They've visited before, but they've never—"

"Tried to destroy the whole town?"

"We need to figure out if it's just us or if they're attacking other towns."

"I don't think it's just us."

Clyde had been staring up at the television in the room, so when the other children turned to question him, they quickly realized what he was talking about; it was muted, turned to a News station. Cities all over the world were being displayed, all burning to the ground.

"Definitely not just us. So, what do we do?"

The creaking of the basement door opening caught their attention. Someone was coming.

"Cartman. . . I thought your doors were locked."

The sound of several people gasping could be heard, but they were all focused on something else—the person—or, to be more accurate, _people_—coming down the stairs.

"You fight, that is what you do."

A French accent. Black and green clothing. A shovel on his back. Scars. Brown, spiky hair. A cigarette dangling from his lips. And the person behind him. . .

"Sounds like a jolly-good time to me."


	2. The Fellas

Kevin reclined in his computer chair, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him. The latest comic he had ordered—something about space rebels—had came in and was now in his hands. He had a cup of warm, relaxing tea beside of him, and a bag of popped popcorn next to it. No school work to worry about, no company coming over, meaning he could stay in his pajamas all day, and he had just finished a nice, hot shower. There would be a _Star Wars _marathon on TV later, and after that, _The Hitchhicker's Guide to the Galaxy _would be coming on.

_Life is good._

And then he heard it—a loud _'bang'_; his door was being kicked in. He tried to stand, but he tripped in the process, the chair going down with him. His hand flew up to grasp the table in an attempt to pull himself up, but his fingers ended up catching the side of his teacup, and he knocked it over as well; the liquid poured over the side of the desk, scolding his arm and face. He screamed out in pain, but the sound was cut off; the thing—the _alien_, he saw out of his undamaged eye—was standing over him, its long fingers wrapping around his neck and choking him.

The monster lifted him up, his feet not touching the ground, as if he weighed nothing. It pulled him away from the turned-over chair, its nails digging into his skin, and dropped him partially; it still had him by the throat, but his lower back and legs were being dragged instead of dangled. He tried to get free, but when the nail belonging to its long, slim finger pressed against his burnt eye, digging in, he went from struggling to get free to struggling to get his _face _free, all rational thought leaving him.

If irony mattered in a time like this, he would have been thinking that no, no life _isn't _good. But as he was being dragged, the life getting choked out of him and his flesh being torn into by something he had always found fascinating, irony didn't occur to him. He couldn't think at all.

As Kevin Stoley was being thrown out of a two-story window, the only things that _did _occur to him were fear, panic, and pain.

...

_It was snowing when he woke up; he could feel flakes falling on his eyelids, his cheeks, his fingers. He wasn't confused as to why the cold wasn't bothering him; he could tell that his body was slowly coming back from a numbness, his soldier instincts kicking in and telling him that he was fine—and _that _was the weird thing. _

_Hell. He had been in Hell. The last thing he could remember was having a chat with the Prince about something—gun control? It didn't matter. It was obvious by the feel of ground—snow was seeping into his shirt—under his back and the cold slowly making itself known to his skin that he was back on Earth._

_His eyes shot open and his hand flew up; it wrapped around something's neck—something grey, something tall, something beastly God had made, something leaning over him. Never taking his eyes or hand off of it, he sat up slowly. It didn't seem on edge, but he still didn't let his gaze wonder as he did a mental check. _

_It was snowing and he was back on Earth, so he figured it was save to assume he was in South Park; he would ask it to make sure though. He slipped his free hand into his shirt and ran his barely-numb fingers over his chest; there were still scars, but he couldn't find any open wounds and he didn't feel any blood. A quick flex of his toes let him know that he had on combat boots. His shovel was still on his back. And pat of his pocket told him that he still had cigarettes; he wouldn't check in front of the creature he was holding, but he would wager his knife was still hidden under his trouser leg._

_He moved slowly let the abomination go, his hand moving to his shovel in case he needed a weapon._

_"What are you? Where are we?"_

_The monster didn't look offended by his treatment of it; if anything, it looked _pleased_. Christophe's eyes narrowed, his teeth grinding together a bit. He had been on edge before, but the fact that the thing in front of him **wasn't** on guard, didn't even look _nervous_, made it worse. His hold on the shovel tightened._

_"I am a friend. I have brought you home. Now, come, I need to show you something. We have a proposition for you."_

_**We**?_

_His hand never letting go of his weapon, he followed after it as it moved through the cemetery._

...

Butters had been running when he heard it—a loud _'thump_' as a body hit the pavement across the street. He stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding against his chest, to look for the source of the sound. His head turned, and then he saw it—or, more specifically, _him_.

Kevin Stoley.

Kevin was bloody, was _dead_, but his clothes, though they were covered in blood, weren't completely unrecognizable, and Butters could see them from where he was standing. He could see Kevin's blue jacket, the one he had wore for the last few years. He could see his arm, one splayed away from the rest of his body, the other in a position that was _not_ natural; it was broken, looked like it was almost snapped in half. He could see—his gaze traveled higher, and from Kevin's window, he could see the thing that had slung him out of it.

"Oh hamburgers. . ."

The mutter had been a quiet one, but the monster's eyes were instantly drawn to him. He made eye-contact with it, his heart beating even quicker, before he took off running again, praying that it wouldn't come after him.

He had to warn the fellas.

...

_The snow had stopped crunching under his feet; they had come to a stop at someone's grave—Phillip Pirrup's. He couldn't remember the boy—assuming it even _was _a boy and not a man—but he had been home-schooled, so it was no surprise. He didn't wonder about the person under his feet; after a quick glance to see whose grave it was, he kept his gaze on the creature in front of him._

_"The proposition that I mentioned earlier is a simple one; we need you to do what you're good at—we need you to be a mercenary. We're waging a war, you see—a war on his pathetic planet. We thought that since the young boys who live in this town were the reason you died, you would like to help us. Were we wrong?"_

_There was no pause; it assumed it knew his answer._

_"The young boy under us this very moment died as well because of the **misery **that happens in this town. He suffered; his insides, his organs, were crushed. And for what? Nothing. No one even noticed. He was a kind boy, too. We watched him for years, as we did the same with you and with many other children. He was special, you see; he was alone, and he had every reason to hate the world. And we will raise him from the ground and **use **that hate. He will become one of our soldiers; he always was an amazing archer, even when he was too poor to be able to afford a meal. He will join us. He will finally have the company he so craves. The question is though, what about **you**, Christophe? Will you become one of us?"_

_It was a lot to take in. His mind was trained to handle dangerous situations though, and he thought quickly._

_The thing in front of him was obviously not of his world._

_It wanted him to fight with—**for**—it. _

_It wanted to destroy Earth._

_It had an army._

_It was raising the dead to make a larger one._

_The person it was about to bring back to life was apparently very dangerous. _

_He had **died **to help their God-forsaken town, just like . . . _

_Just like he himself had._

_He nodded; he knew what he had to do._

_"Very well."_

...

He was still running when he heard it—a scream. Again, he came to a sudden halt; the image of broken, dead Kevin Stoley was still in his mind, had never _left_ his mind the whole time he had been running, but as he turned his head in the direction the scream had came from, his mind blanked.

There, in the front of her yard, was Bebe Stevens. Her house was on fire, but that wasn't what the girl had been screaming about, and it wasn't what Butters was gaping at; an alien had Bebe by the hair and was slamming her head against a car door. With every slam came a _'crack'_, and if he wasn't still sick from Kevin, wasn't getting sicker from seeing Bebe, that would have done it. Along with the cracks were groans until—Butters couldn't take it anymore; he doubled over and threw up into one of the Stevens' bushes.

Tired of her groans, the monster had used its claws to rip her tongue from her mouth.

Wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand after he finished, he grabbed the nearest rock and, without thinking about the consequences, tossed it at the grey beast. He missed, but it caught the thing's attention, and as it turned to face him, never letting go of Bebe, he made eye-contact with it; his mind flashed back to the last one he had seen.

"Y-you leave her alone, you big bully!"

The alien, its mouth bloody, its teeth showing, smirked at him. He began to shake; it had _sharp _teeth.

He was backing up slowly, realizing all too late that Bebe would bleed to death from her injury before she could be saved, when she gurgled, trying to say something—_"Run!" _His gaze moved from the thing in front of him that could very well kill him to the girl that had never liked him, the girl that he had tried to save, the girl that was now telling him to save himself—and he did. He swallowed, apologized for leaving her alone to die, and ran.

The thing lost interest in him and went back to beating his victim's head against the car she had tried to escape in.

...

_His skin was no longer numb by the time the creature was kneeling by Pirrup's grave, chanting something and rubbing its fingers against the tomb. He was used to the cold despite being in Hell for years, so he didn't say anything; he simply watched until it got done, until there was a body materialized in front of him._

_Pip._

_**Shit.**_

_**Shit!**_

_He had never learned the boy's real name, always calling him the name Damien had; they were friends, after all. When was the last time he had seen Pip? Had talked to him?_

_About an hour before he had woken up on Earth._

**Shit.**

_Pip had been visiting his parents while Damien was telling him about something; gun control, which had been Christophe's contribute to the conversation, and. . . what was it? Damien had been telling him about—about souls vanishing lately. It made sense now, and later he would try praying to his friend to give him a heads up, but for now? Now he needed to get Pip somewhere safe. _

_The boy looked healthy enough, though his lips were blue from the cold. His body seemed to be in one piece, which brought up another point—their bodies were much older than the ones they had died in. The alien had made them the age they would have been if they hadn't died. _

Good. It'll come in handy.

_His hand was still on his shovel; he loosened it from its carrier as the beast continued with what it was doing. It had been the plan all along to attack the thing when it was distracted, waiting until he found out more information about what it was doing, but now that he had someone else to protect, he knew he should do so sooner rather than later. It was when a glowing light appeared around Pip's head, which the alien was holding, that he hesitated._

_"What are you doing to him?"_

_The thing didn't seem phased with his shock, nor did it question his anger. It finished the incantation, chanting even when Christophe grabbed it, until it was done; it pulled away from both boys, proud with its work; it gazed down at its newest prize._

_"The same thing I did to you; returning memories, making him able to understand my language."_

_It was when Pip's eyes cracked open that Christophe did it; without waiting for the British boy to even sit up, he slammed his shovel down on top of the alien's head. It was knocked back, the blow making it dizzy, and Christophe took the opportunity to grab Pip's hand and pull him up._

_"Chris—"_

_He didn't have time for answers._

_"Come on!"_

_They ran._

...

Butters was exhausted by the time he reached the cemetery. He had taken more detours than he could count to avoid those _things_, had ran more than he could ever remember running in his whole life, and he feared that by the time he reached Eric's house, it would be too late.

The image of Bebe came to mind, and he pushed himself to run faster.

It was then, as he was passing the cemetery, that he heard it—footsteps, and they were coming closer. He couldn't stop to make sure it wasn't another survivor though; he didn't see how there could be any survivors _left _and he was in too much of a hurry. Luckily for him though, the footsteps grew quieter as he ran; they weren't following him.

If he had moved a few steps slower, he could have met up with Pip and Christophe.

...

_"I don't think I can run anymore."_

_"You have to. Stop being such a pussy."_

_"But, Chris—"_

_"No buts. If you start with the buts, I will kick yours."_

_"My lungs—"_

_"Will not explode."_

_"It feels like—"_

_"They're on fire? That's what surviving feels like."_

_"I can't take—"_

_"Yes you can! You can take every bit of it! Because I can't carry you, it'll slow us down too much!"_

_He couldn't leave him either. If he did, Damien would be angry enough to send him to Heaven, and he didn't want to be around God. This didn't occur to him though. He had a sense of duty to Pip. They were friends; they were both willing to die for the other. He wasn't going to let that happen though. Neither one of them were going to die, not again, not for anybody that didn't deserve it at least, and sure as hell not because of a pathetic **alien**._

_"But—"_

_"What did I tell you about buts? Fine though!"_

_Still holding onto his friend's hand—Pip would have fallen far behind him otherwise—he pulled the boy behind a building so they could rest. He stayed on watch while Pip doubled over, trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible._

Some soldier **he **would have been.

_It caused something to click though; he had been wondering why they couldn't just **make **an army instead of raising one, and now it made sense—because they **couldn't**. They could bring people back to life, but they could only make them how they would have been if they had never died; Pip wasn't a super-soldier, he lost his breath too easily. They could make changes—they could cause the body to grow older—but they couldn't make anything out of thin air._

_Pip finally stood up properly, his hand leaning against the side of the building for support. His lips were almost back to their usual color, but his cheeks were flushed; he was cold. He had warm enough clothes on to not _catch _a cold though, so Christophe didn't make a note of it on his mental check-list of problems._

_"I wonder where we are. South Park, obviously, but where _at_? I do hope we haven't gotten lost."_

_Christophe knew where they were, of course; he had been careful about keeping track of where they were running to. Someone had to, and Pip could be a bit of an airhead at times._

_"Oh, silly me, I know! We're at—"_

_His sentence was cut off by Christophe's hand, cool to the touch, covering his mouth. The blonde was showing his airhead side; he was shouting when they were supposed to be _hiding_._

_"Be quiet. You do not want us to get caught, do you?"_

_Pip shook his head and after a small moment Christophe dropped his hand. The boy had a soft mouth, but it wasn't the time to think about such matters._

_"Good. Now—"_

_It wasn't a hand that stopped Christophe from finishing his sentence but a sound; footsteps. They were coming from above—from the roof of the building they were leaning against. Thinking quickly, he covered Pip's mouth with his hand again and pointed up. He was glad he did so; he knew his friend would gasp, not thinking not to do so, and the sound could have alerted whatever was above them of their presence._

_After a few minutes passed the footsteps began to walk away. After several more slipped away, he dropped his hand once more, and Pip relaxed the tiniest bit. They were safe. Only for the moment, but they were safe._

_"Come on. We need to keep moving."_

...

On the verge of a break down of both body and soul, Butters finally made it to the Cartman household—and after begging the boys to come look outside, they finally did.

He had warned his friends. If he died that very day, he would be happy with that being his last good deed.

...

_After much running, they finally made it; he found the boys who had hired him before. Luckily for him, Pip knew where they lived; he didn't know how long he would have lasted looking for the house on his own. He was sure they would know something though; they had, after all, been in the middle of the trouble going on the last time he had been South Park, and he had heard rumors of the crazy shit they got up to from Pip. _

_If they didn't know what was going on, he had a feeling that they all would be **fucked**. _

_It didn't take much effort breaking into the house; being a mercenary came with a certain set of skills, and lock-picking was one of them. It didn't take long to figure out where they were hiding at either._

_"But, Christophe, how do we get them to trust us?"_

_Ah, there would be the hard part._


	3. Bite to Bite

"No fucking way!"

The children were gathered around the new-comers at the foot of Cartman's stairs; though they were all curious—it wasn't very often, even in South Park, that the dead rose—they made sure to keep a safe amount of distance in case one of the boys decided to try to bite. As per usual, the adults of the town had no clue what was going on, and the few that had made it to the basement were still huddled together, ignorant of the fact they were now sharing a space with two re-animated corpses. It was up to their children to once again figure out was going on.

After having heard Christophe's and Pip's story, they were deciding whether or not the two boys would stay with them, the majority of their answers being in the negative category. It was angering, really, at least to Christophe; they both had died heroes, and this was the thanks they got. His gaze jumped from the people—mere _children_—arguing his fate to his companion. He doubted Pip could make it outside, even if he stayed with him.

_'Shit.'_

"But, Kyle, the things they said they saw sound like what _I _saw. You ain't callin' me a liar too, are ya?"

At least they had the blonde boy—Christophe didn't know his name—arguing their case. It didn't come as much of a relief though; the others didn't seem to take much stock in what he was saying.

"Nobody's calling you a liar, Butters. But they're _dead_, okay? We have no proof that the aliens can bring people back, but we _do _know that some of them can shape-shift to look however they want. They might not even be human. We have to be careful. They could kill us all in our sleep or something."

If they were smart, they wouldn't all sleep at the same time, but after trying to kick him out, he wasn't going to tell the boy—_Kyle_, he definitely remembered Kyle—that.

"He's got a point, dude. Besides, it's Cartman's house, and we all know that _he's _not going to let them stay."

"Damn right."

The other children were all agreeing, whether verbally or by nodding their heads, save one—the blonde boy, Butters. He met Christophe's eyes hesitantly, and Christophe's own narrowed. He could tell that though the boy was having trouble with it, he had come to his decision.

"S-sorry, fellas."

He wouldn't offer to take Butters with them then, though he would probably die if he stayed with the idiots in the house; he could tell by looking at the kid that he would only slow them down.

That was that then. They were on their own.

His hand moved back to Pip's wrist; he would need to hold onto the boy again once they were outside so he wouldn't fall too far behind. Perhaps Pip could sense this, because he huddled closer to his bodyguard—because, surely, Christophe was going to have to protect him if they both wanted to make it out of the situation alive; Damien would kill him if anything happened to the blonde.

He wanted to live. He hadn't minded Hell as much as he thought he would—he was friends with the Prince, after all—but he didn't want to go back. He wanted to _live_. And by keeping Pip from being burned to death by aliens, maybe he could talk Satan into allowing it to be possible after the fiasco was over. . . Of course, Pip himself would rather stay on Earth than go back to Hell, and Damien wouldn't be too pleased with that, but that was a trouble to be saved for later.

"You are right about one thing, you ungrateful pieces of shit. We are dead; we both died for _you_. Good luck without us, bitches."

He had been watching Kyle, and though he thought he saw a spark of guilt flash through the boy's eyes, he didn't wait around to enjoy it; he tugged on his friend's wrist, pulling him up the stairs and out into the danger. It was time to try to find safe ground.

"But, Christophe, where are we to hide at now?"

He had an idea.

...

They had been working in the coffee shop when it had been hit, collapsing to the ground, pieces of it falling on top of them in the process. It figured it would happen on his first day of work; Tweek had asked him for weeks to take on a few shifts—the blonde thought that working so often would cause his fingers to fall off, and his parents didn't want to hire another worker—and he had finally given in. It wasn't bad enough that he was working for no pay, but the fucking _building _had to fall on top of him? He didn't know how, but he had a feeling that it was probably somehow connected to Eric Cartman and the guys that, for some reason he didn't understand, still hung out with him. Cartman was probably going to try to collect insurance on the building or something. He hated those guys—and as coffee poured down on his arm, the only appendage not buried under something, he hated that too.

Craig could hear Tweek shrieking that he was going to die somewhere to his left. It wasn't an unusual thing to hear—Tweek's paranoia hadn't calmed down over the years—but the sheer _fear _in his voice was. Panic from Tweek was one thing, but this? This actually had him _worried_, and Craig Tucker never worried.

"**I'm going to be crushed to death! Gah!**"

Craig tried to push the debris off of himself by using his free arm, but it was no good; he was stuck—and by the sound of it, Tweek was in a similar situation. He tried to not let the panic consume him like it was doing his friend; he would be no help if it did. Surely someone would come for them soon? The town was full of idiots, but _someone _would help them, right?

He doubted it.

...

It was Christophe's opinion that Damien was watching out for them—_"because God sure as hell isn't"_—but Pip liked to think that both God and his Prince were keeping an eye on them, and that Christophe was brilliant and would keep him safe. The mercenary had, after all, kept the both of them alive so far, and had come up with a way to help keep doing so—weapons. It seemed simple enough, but with his mind focused on a safe place to stay, Pip hadn't thought of it. It had been Christophe to pull him into the half-destroyed shop, and it had been Christophe to step on a bow, finding it for him. He had found the arrows himself while Christophe stocked up on the few knives he could find. It was as they were leaving the store that Pip sent a prayer of thanks to both God and his friend below, and it was then that Christophe found something—a rifle.

"Jackpot."

...

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm going to smother to death! Ack!"

"No you won't."

"No! Gah! I'm going to _bleed _to death! I can feel it! My arm is wet, and it doesn't smell like coffee! It hurts! I don't want to bleed to death! Oh man, that is way too much pressure!"

That would explain why Tweek had calmed down considerably; if he really was bleeding, he should be running low on strength. Craig was surprised the boy hadn't passed out yet from overexertion; he had used a good deal of energy trying to get out from under whatever it was that was pining him down, going as far as tearing his nails off by accident, which he spent a good amount of time screaming about.

How long had they been trapped by now? Something was definitely wrong. They were in _town_, for crying out loud. Someone should have at least been by to make sure they were _alive_.

"At least it isn't torn off."

"Ack! What if the skin is really badly ripped open? Oh man, oh man! I'm gonna catch something, and then it'll fall off!"

He should have known better than to engage his friend in a conversation. Hopefully he would pass out soon.

...

It was dark in the South Park cemetery, the mist making it even harder to see. They wouldn't have a problem with it though; they didn't need to see to be able to follow their leader's orders. Six pairs of hands, all spread throughout the cemetery, slowly sunk into the earth below their feet. A vapor was coming from them, something that would make the dead rise and the living fall.

"Are you sure about this, Sir? It's not too late to change your mind."

The dead would walk again, taking out the living. Any soldiers that had been raised already would be able to fend for themselves, and if they couldn't, they didn't deserve to be alive. The mindless beasts wouldn't be strong enough to do any serious harm to his own men, and if they proved him wrong in that aspect, they could go back to their ships. He couldn't find a single setback in the plan, and as hands started shooting out of their graves, he knew it was too late to turn back anyway.

"I'm sure, Logas. Tonight's going to be an interesting one."

His second-in-command nodded in agreement. Interesting indeed.

...

Clyde was the first to realize that the TV stations were all out. Butters was the first to try to call someone—Bradley—and realize that the phone lines were down. Kyle was the first to realize that with the phone lines went the Internet connection. Eric was the first to shout when the lights went out. Filmore was the first to notice that the heat had kicked off. Ike was the first to hear the banging on the walls upstairs. Stan was the first to realize that maybe they should have kept the soldier with them after all. But, naturally, Kenny was the first to realize that they all were about to die.

"Oh sh—"

It was then that the windows in the upper part of the house were broken, windows that Eric hadn't thought to board up; aliens wouldn't need to break in to destroy the place, after all.

Unfortunately for them, it wasn't _aliens _they were having to deal with at the moment.

...

He had no idea how much time had passed before he finally heard someone's footsteps, but he was sure that it had to be dark. Tweek had passed out hours—he figured it was safe to say it had been hours—earlier, a fact he was grateful for; he wasn't sure he could handle hearing the blonde shriek anymore, especially at the sound of someone—some_thing_—coming towards them. He was grateful though, having no idea what, exactly, his "rescuer" happened to be—but his gratitude ended the moment he felt _teeth _sink into his skin.

He wasn't sure what it was that worried him more: the fact that something was _gnawing _on him, or the fact that his scream, something he was sure his friend had never heard from him, didn't wake Tweek up.

His arm. His arm was definitely his main focus at the moment.

The thing—its teeth didn't feel sharp enough to belong to an animal—was chewing off the skin that had been burnt from the coffee. He could feel it being torn off in not-so-small chucks, and there was nothing to do but thrash his arm—which wasn't helping in the least considering it was being sat on by whatever was making him a chew-toy.

He was going to die. He was going to have his arm ate off by something he couldn't even see—something he didn't _want_ to see—and then he was going to bleed to death. And Tweek would probably be right behind him if he wasn't already in the lead. And then Eric Cartman would probably collect insurance off of him somehow, because that was how unlucky he really was.

He hated those guys. With his last breath, he would hate those guys. They had probably caused this. They had probably trained some beast to—

There was a sudden _'thud' _as whatever it was that had been chewing his flesh off fell to the ground. He could hear voices coming closer to where he was trapped—had someone killed it?—but he couldn't focus on them. His arm hurt too much to pay attention to much of anything else, though he did realize when someone freed him.

Though someone—a boy—was trying to pull his arm away from his chest to look at it—something about infection and bleeding to death was being said—Craig wouldn't allow it. Eventually though, the other person pried it from him; he was feeling light-headed from the blood loss, and he couldn't fight them off.

"I did not believe you when you first told me that you could fire a bow and arrow. I'm glad to see I was wrong."

Instead of looking at whoever was speaking—the person closest to him, meaning the person inspecting his arm—he caught sight of the thing that had been trying to make him its late-night snack—and for once in his life, Craig Tucker didn't feel embarrassed for showing his surprise at something.

"Mrs. Donovan?"

She had an arrow buried in her head, but it was definitely her.

...

"What was that?"

The children were standing around the basement table, all keeping a safe distance from the stairs. They had all heard a sound coming from the floor above them, there was no denying that, but _what_, exactly, had caused it was something that they could only guess at.

"You think those guys came back?"

"Why would they break the window to get in? They didn't have to before."

"Maybe it's the a-aliens."

A small pause, precious seconds ticking away, as they thought the answer over.

"It's possible, I guess. They left Cartman's house alone for a reason, right?"

Again, another pause. They could hear something—something heavy, by the sound of it—moving around upstairs, running into the furniture and knocking things over. None of them made a move to see what it was though, not until the sound of more glass breaking could be heard—another window.

"I'll go check it out."

...

Craig leaned against Tweek's side; the blonde was still out cold, though his wound—it had been nothing compared to Craig's—had been patched up by Christophe. The boy, along with Pip, who he could vaguely remember from his childhood, had dug his friend out from what had been pining him down. His condition wasn't nearly as bad as Tweek had made it out to be, but considering it was _Tweek_, Craig didn't know why he had expected otherwise. He should have just been grateful that the boy was okay, but he was still hung up on the fact that his other friend's dead mother had been trying to eat him alive.

_'What a bitch.'_

"What's going on?"

If Mrs. Donovan was here—and he was sure it had been her—then he was probably in Hell. He had probably died when the rubble fell on him, all because Eric Cartman had been trying to collect insurance. He hated that kid.

"The end of the world."

Christophe wasn't looking at him; they were still huddled up in the ruined building, and the soldier was keeping an eye out for trouble. Because of this, along with the fact that he felt like shit and no longer gave a fuck—not that he had given much of one in the first place—Craig let his eyes close.

"Probably because of those guys. What else is new. . ."

That caught Christophe's attention, but after glancing at the boy, he decided to let it go; Craig had drifted off, and he had more than likely been disoriented from the blood loss anyway. Perhaps he would regret his decision later, perhaps it would eat at him—it was bothering him already, and the urge to shake the explanation out of the kid was a strong one—but there was no point in wasting time on what had surely been nothing. He needed to think of a plan; they couldn't stay where they were for much longer.

"What do you think he meant?"

He didn't spare Pip a glance; he had expected the question.

"Nothing. Go keep watch on the other side of the room."

Dealing with Pip was one thing—he was actually _friends_ with the boy—but keeping two others alive? He wasn't going to babysit them for long, not if they slowed him down. He kept that to himself though, knowing that no one was close enough to hear him. Besides, Pip would only disagree with the idea.

...

Kenny didn't hesitate to move towards the foot of the stairs. He had no reason to be afraid; if he died, he would just revive, even if he didn't want to. It was Butters, who was following behind him, that scared him.

"I'll come too."

He knew that he was going to die—of course he would; no matter what he was approaching, it was inevitable. Butters, though? There could be a chance that Butters could make it out of the situation alive—if he played it safe, which wouldn't fall under the category of following after _him_.

"No. You stay here. I'll be right back. . ."

He eventually would be.


	4. Knockin' On Heaven's Door

**A/N: **A line from this is very similar to one in "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I thought I'd mention this before someone claims I tried to pass it off as my own or something.

_You're losing your memory now._

_You're losing your memory now._

_Falling, he was falling. He could feel it, the drop in his stomach, the air pushing at him, though he couldn't actually __**see **__what he was doing; everything was dark, pitch black. He was falling in darkness, and he always would be, because there was no where else __**to **__fall. Had he ever been still, been on his feet? He couldn't remember. He could just remember this sensation, the sensation of never stopping, and. . .something else. Something sticky, and. . . dark, though not quite as dark as the black surrounding him, something. . .red. Something blood red._

_Blood._

_He was injured, wasn't he? He couldn't remember where at though. His whole body was in agony, and as he fell, it only became worse. Something was __**wrong**__, something was causing him to hurt, to fall. He could feel it in his bones, in his skin, in his __**blood**__; his blood felt like it was __**boiling.**__ He was going to die. He was going to die, and it was going to be a slow, painful death._

_Fear joined the pain and darkness, along with. . .regret. What would he regret? Being injured? Obviously, but it felt like something __**more**__. If only he could remember. . ._

_Change. Something within him was changing, __**he**__ was changing, he could feel it. Something to do with. . .his blood._

_What had he been doing? Spending the day—had it even been day?—with someone? That felt right, but who. . .and why did thinking about whoever it was cause his regret to grow?_

_His head was pounding. He didn't want to think about anything, though the questions kept coming, and something kept scratching at his mind, something important. Why was he falling? Why was he hurt? Why did __**everything **__hurt? Who was this person? Why did they cause him to regret something he couldn't even __**remem**__—_

_Tweek._

_He regret—_

"Wake up, we have to get moving. Wake up!"

Someone—the boy who had fixed up his arm—was crouching next to him, shaking his shoulder, but as Craig jerked awake, his attention was focused on something else—something yellow; Tweek's hair. The blonde was sitting opposite of Christophe, wide awake, and staring down at him. His bottom lip was being chewed on in a nervous gesture, and he had placed a hand on Craig's uninjured arm. He had been shaking him too, and Craig, who had been asleep with his head on his shoulder, had woken up to not the sun, as he had first thought, but his friend's hair being in his direct line of sight, the undamaged street light shining down on it, allowing him to see it.

The sun wasn't up yet.

_'Today's going to be _great_. As usual.'_

"Hurry up. You've already slowed us down."

He took the French boy's offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. His arm was in bad shape; he hadn't expected otherwise. The cloth—Craig hadn't asked where it had came from—that had been wrapped around his wound was soaked through with blood and needed to be replaced, but he doubted Christophe would wait on him to do it. He would try to take care of it later, assuming there would _be _a later.

Craig's arm went around Christophe's shoulder since, because of the blood loss, the boy was still nauseous. Christophe didn't appreciate it—he was still planning on leaving the strangers behind if they slowed him and Pip down too much—but Tweek was injured—though, thankfully, not as badly as Craig—and Pip was weaker than him. It made sense to help the boy move, at least until he had to get rid of him; there was a chance that he could come in handy later. Pip, who was helping Tweek in the same way, seemingly had the same idea, though Christophe knew it probably had more to do with how nice the Brit was than battle tactic.

They moved away from the ruined building, keeping close to the others that they passed, careful to be hidden from the sky. It was still night—only a handful of hours had passed—and it was dangerous to be moving around, but their location hadn't been a safe one, and it would have been even more dangerous to stay still.

Though Tweek was the only one to say so—repeatedly, though he didn't get a reply after the second time—they all had the same feeling, the same sense, the same _fear_: there was nowhere to hide.

_Darkness. Blood. Fear. Regret._

As the night wore on, pieces of Craig's dream came back to him. He had been falling, had been in immense pain, but the regret was what stuck out to him the most—though, if irony mattered to him, he would have focused more on the fact that something was changing within him. But, unfortunately for him, he cared about as much for irony as Kevin Stoley had in his last moments, and he didn't realize how sick he was becoming anyway. So, because of this, because he chose to ignore his torn up arm and the chance of infection, he tried to remember what, exactly, it was he had regretted in his dream.

Tweek, it had been something about Tweek. But what.. . .?

He didn't have a problem with his friend. The kid could be annoying sometimes—he yelled too much for Craig's enjoyment—but compared to other people, he was fine. Better than fine, actually; if Craig thought about it, he would say that Tweek was his best friend, as gay as it would sound. Tweek got allowances for things that would usually piss him off, he invited Tweek over more than he did his other friends, he agreed to work for the kid without being paid, even though it meant having to deal with people, which he hated. He wouldn't admit it, but he loved the boy—his regret.

He stopped in his tracks, his head turning, his gaze finding his twitchy friend, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. He started moving again after Christophe nudged his side, but his mind was still in a stand-still.

Tweek. He regretted not telling Tweek that he loved him.

_'Yep. I was right; what a great day.'_

It was still night, but he didn't notice. His gaze kept finding his friend in the dark.

It was possible Tweek felt the same way about him, he supposed, but he wouldn't bet money on it. The blonde spent the night with him more often than he did Token or Clyde, he seemed to trust him more than he did the others—he had let Craig teach him how to swim and ride a bike—it was easy for Craig to calm him down—assuming they weren't pinned under something—Tweek had chose to offer him a job, something that would cause them to spend extra hours around each other throughout the week, instead of offering it to one of their mutual friends, though Token would have agreed to it much sooner. Things that seem like nothing until one takes into consideration the fact that it's _Tweek_, Tweek who doesn't fully trust anyone, Tweek who doesn't like to spend the night in strange places—he had grown accustomed to the Tucker household over the years—Tweek who doesn't like to be touched, which would happen quite a bit during Craig's attempts at calming him down, Tweek who gets nervous around people—but not him. Tweek didn't get nervous around him.

Tweek could love him, he knew, he _felt_. He didn't want to die before finding out; he didn't want involved with whatever was going on, but he was being forced into it, and he knew that there was a large chance he wouldn't be alive much longer. He wanted to find out how Tweek felt before it was too late.

But Tweek was in a panic—he had heard a noise somewhere behind them—and the timing wasn't right.

He could die with regret after all—could and probably would.

_'Great.'_

_You're losing your memory now._

_You're losing your memory. . ._

He was almost to the top of the stairs when he realized that someone was following after him, a creak alerting him. He stopped walking, two steps away from the basement door, his heroic side coming out, beating back the more laid-back aspect of his personality. The urge to protect people, just like his power, had lasted throughout the years, and the old mindset of Mysterion had kicked in the minute he had heard glass shattering.

"I thought I told you—"

He turned half-way, his hand still in the direction of the door, to look at Butters—and he stopped mid-sentence when he realized that it wasn't _Butters _he was looking at.

"I thought I would help, dude."

Whatever was on the other side of the door—he could still hear it smashing into furniture—was going to be dangerous, he knew, but Stan had a far better chance of taking care of himself than Butters would have had, and someone would need to tell the others what they saw in case he didn't make it—and he was betting he wouldn't.

"Fine."

He nodded before turning around, fully facing the door once more, and taking the final two steps until he reached it. He took one long, deep breath, preparing himself for Heaven or Hell, before reaching out and turning the knob—and the breath he took, the one he had paused for, became stuck in his throat when he saw what was on the other side of the now opened door.

"What is it?"

Stan was directly behind him now, trying to peer over his shoulder. Kenny could hear his friend's intake of breath, could tell that the boy was just as surprised as he was—for good reason. They both had been expecting to see something from the sky, not from the ground. A corpse, especially a _familiar_ one, was enough to stop both of them in their tracks, to cause their mouths to open.

"Oh. . . Grandpa. . ."

Maybe it was the anguish in Stan's voice, or maybe it was the fact that the thing turned to _look_ at them, but something sparked inside of Kenny, and he snapped into action; he tried to slam the door shut before it could reach them. Unfortunately, it was too fast for him; it was ironic, really, considering Mr. Marsh had been a cripple while alive, but like Craig and Kevin, he didn't think of it. The door was grabbed, along with his arm, and he was yanked out of it. He tried to push at the monster, tried to warn the others to hurry and shut and lock the door, but he knew it was futile; he was caught, and he could hear multiple thuds as something fell down the stairs.

Stan had tried to grab him, and he had pushed his friend back, not wanting to drag him down with him.

As teeth—not many, granted, but painful none-the-less—bit down on his jaw, he tried to ignore the pain and focus on how he had lived his previous life. Would he go to Heaven? Or Hell? He couldn't think long enough to figure it out, and as his jaw was torn off, he couldn't care anymore. If he went to Heaven, there was a chance he would be brought back sooner, but by the time it happened, everyone would probably already be dead. If he went to Hell, he would get to see who had died, since, as far as he knew, no one in the town was a Mormon. But he wasn't thinking about these things. He could only focus on tearing skin and teeth, on a mouth he hadn't seen in years, on the fact he was being ate alive.

He went out using his last thought to pray for the boy who had tried to help him, the boy who had followed him into darkness—though, at the time, he didn't realize how accurate the thought was.

Maybe spending his last few seconds praying for someone else would win him an entrance into Heaven, but he didn't think of this either.

The sound of a body hitting the stairs echoed in his mind.

_'I'm sorry.'_

_. . . now._

The other children rushed to the foot of the stairs as Stan hit it. They gathered around him, Butters, Kyle, and Eric making the first circle, the others falling in behind him. His parents and sister were somewhere close, too, though he couldn't focus on what they were saying; he had hit his head on Cartman's floor, and it was hard to keep his eyes open, let alone pay attention to his mother and father telling him it was going to be okay. Besides, he had something he needed to do.

"Kyle. . ."

He coughed, blood staining his lips, his ribs hurting. His best friend took his hand, holding onto it tightly.

"I'm here, Stan."

He didn't think about it—_couldn't_ think about it—but it was good he was talking to Kyle and not his father, though a large part of him wished it could be Randy that was holding his hand, that his head was resting on. If he had been in his right mind, he would have realized that his father couldn't take care of himself, that if anyone was going to fix whatever was going on, it would have to be Kyle. Kenny was dead, he was dying, and Cartman was probably just going to make it worse. Kyle would be the only one left. But he hurt too much to figure this out on his own, and logic wasn't why he was holding on—habit, instinct, these were the reasons why. Years of having to take care of the town's problems with his best friend—because, even after being replaced by Cartman, he still considered Kyle his Super Best Friend—had become as natural to him as breathing was. He knew, knew without thinking about it, that Kyle was the one to tell. Kyle was the one. Kyle was always the one.

"My grandpa. . . Kyle, lock the door. . . While you still can. . ."

It was getting dark, too dark to see. Every breath became harder to breath, his lungs hurting him far more than his head, which was bleeding; he couldn't feel it, but blood had pooled from his scalp to his chin. He couldn't hear Butters running up the stairs, couldn't hear him scream when he saw what was happening to Kenny, couldn't hear him slam and lock the door; he couldn't hear Kyle crying or his father asking about Mr. Marsh, either. He couldn't recall closing his eyes, but he couldn't recall much of anything. He didn't know that he was bleeding internally, that even if the world wasn't ending and they had taken him to a hospital, he would have died. As it grew even darker and he faded away though, he felt at peace. His life was ending, but his body was quickly going numb. It felt like going to sleep, really.

He would never know it, but his mother kissed him one last time on the forehead, like she used to when he was a little boy, back before he became depressed, right as he was drifting off.

His last thought was that tomorrow would be better. Kyle would want to hang out with him again, things would seem fun again, his parents wouldn't fight as much, he would see his grandpa. It would be better.

But things are never better, not in South Park, and if he was in his normal state of mind, his _depressed _mind, he would have known that.

Stanley Marsh died a happy boy, which was much more than what Kenny McCormick got that day. But Kenny would get another chance to try it again, and Stan would never be coming back, at least not as himself.


	5. Blood, Lust, Need

_Did you ever deny?_

"No way! I won't work for you!"

She was cornered, her back to a wall. It was taking leisurely steps towards her, its feet not making a sound as they moved. She was trapped, she knew; there was a large chance she was going to die, and she also knew that. She had hope though; it wanted to use her, so maybe it would kidnap her and she would be able to escape at a later date, maybe even with some knowledge of what it was planning. She doubted it though; she had seen what the thing was capable of, and as it murdered Red in front of her, it had seemed to be enjoying its task. Even if it thought she was useful, she had a feeling it enjoyed indulging in its blood lust too much to try to force her to do its bidding.

She had never been one to just give up though, and as its long fingers reached out to touch her hair, she was determined to not let her fear show in her eyes.

"Are you sure, my dear? You have quite a brilliant mind. It would be a shame to waste it."

Long nails brushed against her face, scratching it; she could feel blood, and though she winced, she didn't allow herself to cry out. She wouldn't allow it the privilege of hearing her scream.

"_Never._"

It let out a long, drawn out sigh, its free hand moving to cup the other side of her face; it was still several feet away from her, its arms long enough to reach her without being terribly close, a fact she was grateful for—she would have gaged had it been any nearer to her.

"It really _is_ a shame. You were one of a kind, you know? The boss took a real liking to you."

Before she knew what was happening, the monster snapped her neck; her last thought was that she hoped her boyfriend, wherever he was, was safe.

"But there will be others."

It let go of her head, and Wendy Testaburger's body fell to the ground.

_Were you ever a traitor?_

Eric stood from where he was crouching, his gaze breaking away from his lifeless friend; the fact that Kenny came back to life on a regular basis was in his mind, keeping him from worrying about Stan—not that he would worry terribly about the other boy in the first place. There were more important things going on, after all, and Stan had been an asshole to him anyway. It was his own ass that he needed to think about—not that he was worried about that either.

Turning away from the group of people still situated around the body—already it was labeled as just another body in his mind—he faced the stairs. The others were still fussing about Stan, some of them crying, some of them guessing at what the boy had seen before he fell; the others were trying to pry this bit of information out of Butters, along with what had happened to Kenny. He didn't think they would notice if he slipped away. Kyle, as usual, had to prove him wrong though; he didn't make it past the third step before the boy's hand was grabbing a hold of his leg, almost tripping him. Really, he should have known, but in a sick way it was laughable; even in death, he won Kyle's attention away from Stan.

"Where are you going, Cartman?"

Eric didn't have to turn his head and look back at the boy to know that he was shaken up; Kyle had been the one sobbing the loudest over Stan's death, after all. It didn't matter that they had grown apart over the years. That Stan's depression turned into alcoholism that no one wanted to deal with—including Kyle. That Kyle had abandoned his friend for his own happiness. None of this mattered to Kyle when the boy he had once been so close to laid beside him, dead, his hand becoming cold, and Eric knew this.

It also didn't matter that some part of him wanted to go back to the circle of people, to crouch beside of Kyle once more, to put an arm around his shoulder. It didn't matter that Kyle would cry on him, and that he would allow it; it didn't matter that though they still fought, they were as close to each other as Kyle had been to the corpse he was holding onto during childhood. It didn't matter, because he needed to get going.

He would take Kyle with him once he knew it was safe, even though he knew Kyle would have a problem with what he was doing—which, of course, didn't matter either.

What did matter was the fact that he needed to get upstairs.

Though he didn't _need_ to turn his head, he did. Kyle was staring at him, his attention, as usual these days, switched from Stan to him. He wasn't surprised to see the boy's eyes were red; he had expected it, after all, just like he expected Kyle to let go of Stan's hand and stand, meaning to follow after him. He didn't, however, expect Kyle to keep a hand on _him_; the one that had been on his leg let go and re-situated on his upper arm. It stayed there much longer than necessary, the fingers not even going all the way around the limb; it wasn't like Kyle could force him to stay there, at least not without a fight, and they both knew it. Kyle wanted comfort, he knew; instead of going to his father, he was going to _him_ for comfort. He also knew that Kyle was _worried _about him, about what he was about to do.

Sometimes he wondered if Kyle loved him as much as he loved Kyle.

"I'm going to go see what's in my house, Kahl."

He could tell his friend was about to protest, but he didn't give him the chance; he interrupted the boy before he could even start his sentence, pulling a gun out from the waistband of his jeans. It had been crammed in there, hidden under his shirt, since they had arrived back at his house.

"_Relax_, Kahl. I'm prepared."

Eric turned away once more, the hand falling from his arm. Kyle wasn't done though, not wanting to lose another friend. He grabbed onto the back of the larger boy's shirt, stopping him in his tracks yet again. Really, he was beginning to become an annoyance, but Eric couldn't stay angry, not after hearing what Kyle said next—not after the memory it brought back.

"Please. . . Cartman. . . We've already lost Stan and Kenny. . . My mom. . . Don't. . . Don't leave me too."

...

_It was snowing outside; he hated the snow, hated the cold. He hated damn near everything at that moment, and the only thing—the only _person_, to be more accurate—he didn't hate was standing in front of him, standing between him and the television set he hadn't been paying any attention to._

_"I'm sorry about your mom, Cartman."_

_Though they had been friends for a while—real friends, despite how often they didn't agree—he had expected Kyle to ridicule him, to tell him that his mom had been a whore. That she had deserved to die in the slow, painful, embarrassingway she had. That he was an asshole who deserved to be alone._

_But that was the day that Kyle laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. He had looked up, his head still resting on his hand, and his eyes had connected with the pair belonging to the boy standing above him; he could find no mockery there. He still didn't trust him—he would probably never trust anyone completely—but Kyle wasn't openly making fun of him. And it was so easy to get him to cry if one just knew the right buttons to push; beating him up, for instance, which Kyle had done before, or, when he was alone in his room at night, thinking about the fact that he was missing a parent—and now he was missing two. His eyes were covered by his hand once more, and he began to sob. It would embarrass him later, but he didn't care at the moment, and if Kyle tried to use it as blackmail against him, he would just deny it and claim that the boy had tried to make a pass at him—he was, after all, wrapping his arms around Eric's shoulders, and some people would take that the wrong way. _

_Eventually Kyle joined him on the couch, his back resting against one of the arms. Though it was uncomfortable—Eric was still big—he guided his friend between his legs, having him lean against his chest, an arm still around the larger boy's shoulders, a hand rubbing his back. They stayed like that for hours, Eric sobbing until he didn't have the energy anymore, Kyle's leg going numb. Neither made a move to get up though, and neither spoke. It was heartbreakingly sad, but at the same time, it was comfortable._

_That was also the day that Eric realized he was in love with Kyle. _

...

Kyle was showing weakness, but Kyle was _his _weakness. But he wouldn't stop what he was doing for the boy; they could be friends for a century, and they would never completely give in to each other. It was part of what made Kyle so special—and it was why he couldn't live without him, why he would drag the boy out of the hell that the Earth was becoming. It would be a bore without him, and Eric Cartman couldn't handle being bored.

Without turning around again, he reached behind himself to pull Kyle's hand loose from his shirt, his thick fingers circling the boy's wrist completely. He didn't let go of it, knowing that if he did, it would just latch onto him again, and Kyle didn't struggle to get it free.

He wondered when, exactly, Kyle became okay with being touched by him.

"Kahl—"

He had developed a habit of saying the boy's name far more often than what's necessary during a conversation, but he didn't notice it.

"_No_, Cartman. Stan's dead, and Kenny probably is too. My mom. . . Whatever's up there caused it. I can't—I won't—"

Weak. Strong. Kyle was a contradiction he could spend his whole life trying to figure out, and he would still fail. The boy was trying to get him to stay, pleading even, which was something he was usually too strong to do, but Eric knew that Kyle didn't need him, not the way he needed Kyle. If Kyle was the last man on Earth, he would be fine. Shaken up, definitely, but not _broken_. Of course, Eric liked to convince himself differently from what he knew to be the truth—that Kyle _did _need him. Everyone else though? Everyone else could be gotten rid of.

"Technically, Kahl, I think Kenny caused Stan's death."

Even if he wasn't trying to shake Kyle off of him, he would have still said it—it was true, after all; him and Kyle had both been watching, along with Butters, from the bottom of the stairs. He hoped it would help though, that Kyle would get pissed off enough to let it be—and it worked, because the boy sounded disgusted when he spoke.

"You're such an asshole, Cartman."

Though he would never actually figure Kyle out completely, he still knew the boy well enough to know that it still wouldn't be enough, that Kyle would still try to keep him from going upstairs. As unpredictable as Kyle could be—because, really, after years of knowing the boy, he still couldn't grasp how Kyle was going to behave around him; whether he'd take something in stride or he'd try to argue about it—he was just as predictable. Another contradiction.

_'Just one more push. . .'_

"Yes, but I'm not dead like Stan and Kenny."

And he intended to stay that way, too.

Kyle made a sound of contempt in the back of his throat—something like a grunt, but with far more disdain and disgust mixed in—and struggled to be let free; Eric obliged, happy to finally be on his way. He would deal with Kyle's anger later. For now, he needed to save the boy's life.

"Go to Hell, Cartman."

He would have to die first, and he really didn't plan on doing that—and if it _did _happen, he would drag Kyle along for the ride.

His friend stomped down the stairs, and as Eric went in the other direction, he really hoped that Kyle had enough sense to come back and lock the door behind him. Of course, if Kyle died, he could just ask for him to be brought back.

He paused at the top of the stairs to ready his gun; he had a feeling he knew what was trashing his house on the other side of the door, and though he didn't want to deal with it, he was ready. He knew what to do.

His hand was on the door knob when he realized someone was coming up the stairs behind him. He turned, Kyle's name on his lips, but stopped when he saw who it was.

"Decide to come with me, Butters?"

He hoped not. The blonde wouldn't slow him down; if Butters got hurt, he wouldn't stop for him—probably. He had considered letting Butters live, which was why he wanted the boy to stay behind, where it was safe—for now, anyway. Kyle was the one that kept him entertained—and, admittedly, the one he loved—but Butters was the closest he would come to ever actually trusting anyone, and if Eric manipulated it the right way, there was no way the blonde wouldn't join him without a fight, unlike Kyle.

"Why—why no, Eric. I'm just here ta lock the door behind you."

That would make things a lot less complicated.

"Be c-careful out there."

It was when Butters hugged him that he made up his mind; he would, in fact, enlist the boy in his brilliant plan. Who else would be able to pull statistics out from their head without having to do the math or take care of him no matter what, something Kyle probably wouldn't do if he felt Eric deserved the punishment befallen to him at the time, or follow him to the end of the Earth? Become a pirate with him or help him count and then dispel his sins? Who would never ignore him? Who else would _trust_ him? Who else would he be willing to seriously _hurt_? He didn't fully realize it until then, but if he wanted to pull off what he was doing, he would need Butters—and Butters, as usual, would give him what he needs.

"Will do."

And with that, Butters let him go, and he turned to face the door once more.

He cracked the door.

_Ever in love_

The four of them tensed, all listening for any other sound—and then they heard it, footsteps somewhere behind them. One of Christophe's hands moved to his gun, the other unlatching Craig's arm from his shoulder, before he pushed the boy behind him. He turned his head to Pip, nodding at Tweek so the archer would know to push the boy in front of himself, so Tweek would be with Craig. They stood back to back, the injured pair between them.

"Ready?"

"I was born ready."

Craig wasn't listening to their conversation though, his focus on Tweek. The blonde was clinging to his side, his panic taking him over as it was prone to do. Every part of him that Craig was touching, he could feel shaking. Pure terror was written all over his face.

They were going to die, and Tweek knew it.

Craig's undamaged arm went around his friend's waist, his forehead pressing against Tweek's.

"Close your eyes."

It was an unsafe move, but it wasn't like they had anything to fight with, and if Tweek actually _saw_ a walking corpse, his fear would make him unreasonable. It would be safer for him if he did as he was told for the time being—and to Craig's surprise, he did. His hand, the one belonging to the nearly useless arm, moved over Tweek's eyelids anyway, just in case, though it hurt to raise his arm.

He held Tweek closer as the thing stalking them came into sight.

_with your blood,_

"I see it. It is on my side."

Christophe readied his gun to be fired, sizing the monster up. It was limping slowly, a large chunk of its leg torn off. It was then that a thought came to him.

"Do you think they eat each other?"

The blonde he didn't know let out a wailing scream, but quietened to a whimper after being reminded that noise could attract others. He would have to ditch the boy soon if he kept such dangerous stunts up.

"Heavens, I don't know."

He really hoped so; it would make things a lot easier on him.

Pip shot an arrow after telling him there was another, one in his line of sight, and Christophe shot his own down. It would almost be fun if the consequences of failing weren't so serious.

"Come on, get moving, we have to hurry. They might have heard the shot."

He watched as Craig kept his hands over Tweek's eyes, telling the boy he would guide him to wherever they were going until they were away from the body, despite hardly being able to walk on his own. They definitely wouldn't make it, he knew.

It wasn't their asses he was determined to keep safe.

_lust,_

It didn't take Kenny long to make his way into the palace; he had been to Hell enough times to consider it a second home, even having a room a few floors below Damien's, a perk of being friends with the king. Of course, he never stayed there for long, always finding himself back on Earth mere hours after his death, which was the reason he hadn't stood up for Christophe and Pip when they were looking for a place to stay—he hadn't been around them long enough to know if it was really them or not—Kyle had a point about shape-shifting, after all—and even if he had, none of the others would have belived him about his visits to Hell. The few hours he did spend there consisted mostly of talking to Satan and taking advantage of the lose women around the palace, not chatting it up with two boys he had never been friends with in the first place. Despite this, he was used to one particular sight, one he would often see during the little amount of time he got to wonder around—and it was one he stopped to stare at as he entered the main palace lobby.

Public display of affection—or, to be more specific, _groping_—had never been something Damien had a problem with, and the blonde he was leering down at, his hands on either side of the boy's head, seemed to be going along with it without a care in the world as Damien rubbed his thigh through his trousers—his _blue _trousers. Really, they would have been hot had he not been so thrown off—and they still kind of were, but he had questions he needed answers to, and as he strode over to the pair, he thought Pip might be able to answer him. Because, really, what the _fuck_?

He made a note to himself to also check for Stan later, but as he watched Damien lean down to lick Pip's neck, it became harder to concentrate.

_and need?_

Eric could hear the thing—it was a zombie, he was sure—moving around somewhere in his kitchen. His focus stayed on the noise, and he ignored the blood—Kenny's—smeared on his floor, the pieces of flesh and bone, the clothing, as he quietly made his way through his house, careful not to alert Mr. Marsh—hadn't that been what Stan had tried to warn them about?—to his presence. He made it to his room without any trouble, and locked the door behind himself, a sigh of relief slipping past his lips.

"Hello, Mr. Cartman."

He didn't jump, not surprised to find, as he turned, that there was a being sitting on his bed; he had expected it. Its legs were crossed, and it looked comfortable, like it had been there for hours. A spike of anger ran through him, anger that he had been stuck downstairs waiting.

"Where have you been, asshole?"

Deals didn't make themselves, after all.


	6. We'd Ever Die For These Sins

Jimmy had been in his living room reading his new jokes off to Timmy and Token when his house was hit by a burst of something he had never heard of, causing it to, for the most part, fall in. Craig and Tweek were working, Clyde was on a date with Red, Kevin had said there was something he needed to do, Butters had plans for Bennigan's, he had learned not to work with Eric, and his parents weren't home, so it had just been them. Other than a few scrapes they, by some miracle, had been fine—had.

It had been Token's idea to stay in the house after they realized the whole town was being demolished. He had a habit of being passive in situations, probably because he spent so much time around Craig, and he had enough sense to realize that the aliens—because that was the most reasonable conclusion they could come to—would strike them down if they came into sight, something they had seen happen to some of the other townsfolk who were on the streets. Jimmy didn't feel right about not helping whoever else who had survived, and he knew that Token, who was a pretty good person, probably felt the same way, but he wasn't going to argue logic.

It was also Token who woke him up. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but when he came to, it was because his friend was screaming—and after Jimmy jerked awake, after his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see why.

He had told Token a joke about the living dead that day.

He still had his braces on, having slept sitting up on his half-ruined couch. After sitting up straight at the sound of screaming, he had stood and stumbled, still disoriented from sleep, towards the boy in pain. He swung an arm, hitting the attacker with metal, before even realizing what it was—or that there was more than one. Unfortunately for him, he caught its attention, and it went for him while one of the other ones continued tearing into Token with it's teeth; he could hear Timmy screaming as well, and though he couldn't risk looking, he had a feeling the boy was in the same situation. He swung at it a few more times, hitting it, but it paid no attention to the pain—he didn't know it, but it couldn't _feel_ pain—and none of his strikes were able to knock it down long enough to kill it; the thought of escaping, leaving behind his two injured friends, didn't occur to him. It wasn't long before it overpowered him and he went down.

The zombie was on top of him, biting into his neck; he joined the other two in screaming, and as the monster tore his ear off, his voice reached a level he didn't think possible—but, of course, he _wasn't _thinking about it. He tried to beat it off of him, tried to crawl away, but it was no good. Others, though he couldn't feel it, began on his legs, ripping the fabric of his jeans off along with his flesh. His torso was next, and he could definitely feel that. The one that had been devouring his ear latched onto the side of his head, ruining an eye in the process, and his scream became even louder.

With one eye left, he watched as Timmy, who was confined to his chair, had his own head bitten into.

...

_Kyle wearing his shirt was hot enough for him to jerk off to for at least the rest of the month._

_They had been joking around in the kitchen while trying to make their dinner, flour going everywhere. Kyle was planning on spending the night, something that had become normal over the years, and he had already been in his pajamas when it had happened. His bottoms were fine, but the top? He didn't want to sleep in something that would cause him to itch, so he had ended up borrowing a shirt._

_It had been more than a little baggy on him, coming down to his thighs, but that just made it hotter, and as he crawled into bed with Eric that night, another time-honored tradition between them, as his back pressed against Eric's chest, as an arm went around his waist, Eric felt he could hardly be blamed for his erection._

_"Cartman. . ."_

_There had been an edge to Kyle's voice, and Eric's amusement quickly turned into irritation. Honestly, sometimes he wondered why he thought he stood a chance. _

_And then he would remember all of the times they had saved each other, all of the times Kyle would let him touch him longer than necessary, the fact that the boy would barely talk to Stan but would spend a night at his house at least once every week, and then he felt better._

_Of course, there was always the chance that Kyle just felt **bad **for him, but he was far too cocky, to self-assured, to let it bother him—much, anyway._

_Kyle wasn't trying to move away._

_"Relax, Kahl. It's just left over from a really hot dream I was having before you got back."_

_Some of the flour had made it down Kyle's shirt—because Eric had poured it down there, naturally—so the boy had wanted a shower before changing. He had no idea that Eric hadn't taken a nap, and Eric wasn't going to tell him otherwise._

_Though he was proud of how quickly he had thought of his excuse, he moved his arm anyway, not wanting to take any chances; he didn't want to argue when Kyle was in bed with him._

_"About Patty Nelson?"_

_Eric laid down so he was on his back, and not a minute later Kyle rolled over so he was on his other side, facing him. Their eyes met, and the look written on Kyle's face was one Eric had seen often—the boy was sizing him up, trying to see if he was lying. Sneaky Jew._

_He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, something that was happening more and more often since realizing he was in love, and something on his face must have shown it, because Kyle suddenly sat up, his concern evident._

_"Cartman?"_

_There was a hand on his stomach._

_He really needed to lose weight, didn't he? _

_He still claimed he was big boned._

_Kyle still called him fat._

_He felt sicker._

_He rolled over onto his side, facing the wall instead of Kyle._

_"Yeah. Night, Kahl."_

_He hadn't noticed Patty Nelson in years._

As he faced the thing sitting on his bed, this was what he thought of.

...

"Oh, Kenneth! Hello there."

It made sense that Pip would acknowledge him first since he was in the blonde's line of sight. No doubt Damien heard him coming long before Pip noticed him though, probably realizing he was there the moment he had stepped into the palace. Kenny didn't blame him; he would ignore someone too if he was in the anti-Christ's position.

He greeted the boy by nodding, and Pip seemed pleased he hadn't been ignored; his hands were running up and down Damien's back though, showing that he wasn't side-tracked, that he wouldn't be doing any ignoring of his own. It was probably a good thing, Damien's possessive side having become notorious over the years, and just not over Pip. You could look at the kid's tea, which he attested, for twenty seconds too long, and he would smite you over it, something Kenny had learned the hard way.

Despite knowing that it was a bad idea, he couldn't help but stare. Pip seemed. . . fine. He was flushed, his skin was marked, but that was obviously because of Damien, and, just as obvious, it was something he _wanted_. Other than the ones put there by the prince, Kenny couldn't see a scratch on him.

"Is there something you _want_?"

There was a growl in Damien's voice, a darkness in his eyes that could be seen now since he had turned his head when he realized they weren't going to be left alone, and Kenny definitely knew what the dark haired boy _thought _he wanted. He was certainly going to be in for a surprise.

...

"Hurry up!"

Christophe ushered the others into the building, the two injured in the middle; he had went in first to make sure there was nothing lurking in the dark inside of the wrecked building, and Pip was coming in the rear to shoot anything following after them. It was a smart tactic, and though it seemed like common sense, he had a feeling his companion wouldn't have thought of it. He wouldn't trust the quiet one to be able to form coherent thoughts with the amount of blood loss he was suffering from, and the other one. . . well, on his own the other one would last about thirty seconds, and even that was being charitable. It was up to him and him alone to get them to safety, and by the looks of it, he had found it.

"Stay here. Guard what is left of the door and windows, but be careful not to be seen."

He had been speaking to Pip, of course; the other two were completely unreliable, and though his friend could be an idiot at times, he hoped the boy had enough sense to actually watch and make sure nothing was approaching. He decided to hurry though, just in case.

It was in his haste that he didn't notice the blood on the floor. It was a soldier's job to always mind their surroundings, one thing he didn't do, and as he made it past the pieces of ceiling that were blocking his way to the rest of the living room, he slipped. Luckily for him, he didn't hit his head on anything, but he was far too angry with himself to be grateful.

It was Pip, he knew. He had been distracted because of Pip, and now he was covered in—

His eyes narrowed as he realized what, exactly, he had slipped on—blood, and a lot of it. A mix belonging to three boys he had never met, would never meet. He couldn't feel sympathy though; he couldn't afford to. He needed to hurry and check the rest of the house in case they weren't alone.

...

"There has been an unusually large intake of souls lately. I don't know what's going on though. And I don't care."

They were seated in the palace lobby, Kenny having told Damien that he needed to speak to him about something important. The prince had refused to listen, of course, having far more interesting things to tend to, but Pip had been curious, and after asking, he had gotten what he wanted—to hear a potential friend out. Of course, Kenny should have known better than to try getting Damien's help or even answers from the boy; he should have just gone straight to Satan, who was always willing to talk to him when he had the chance to do so.

"It's weird though."

He knew stating the obvious wouldn't help—Damien was apathetic, not an idiot—but he didn't know what else to say, and he felt he had to do _something_. If Damien didn't change his mind in the next few minutes, he would get up and find the king himself; he would be more likely to know what was going on anyway.

"No shit."

Giving up, Kenny sighed and stood. Pip stopped him though, though not by touching him—not that he would _mind _that, but he didn't want to be turned into an animal by Damien.

"I think it's rather interesting myself. Another me? Heavens, that does sound like something I would very much like explained to me."

_'Me too.'_

...

_He had learned at an early age that he had a low tolerance for pain. Maybe this should have made him a better person; maybe it should have caused him to appreciate his mother, who had gone through birthing him, more, or the Jewish people, or Kenny, who he, for some reason, knew died on a daily basis. Maybe it should have caused him to care about the fact that people were **so **easy to break, and hurting someone wasn't right. _

_Of course, he **did **care—it just wasn't in the conventional way that would apply to most people._

_This was because he wasn't **like **most people. He knew that others were easy to hurt; he felt no guilt for this. He could see someone in pain, and he could know what it felt like, but he could almost never **care** about it. He could definitely appreciate it—_enjoy_ it—but it didn't make him want to help people._

_He couldn't remember a time that he hadn't enjoyed seeing other people in pain. There were the rare exceptions, of course—his mother, sometimes Kyle—but most of the time. . ._

_He gritted his teeth as he dragged the knife across his hand, and he watched in fascination as drops of his blood poured down from his now-clenched fist, landing on the pentagram drawn onto his bedroom floor._

_He had a low tolerance for pain, but if it would help cause others the same feeling in magnitude, it was usually worth it. Plus, there was also the added bonus that he would be the new king of Earth._

...

_He had been told on more than one occasion that he had mental, along with anger, problems. Each and every time, he would do something to get whoever it was—usually a doctor—back. Having their spouse divorce them, finding a way to get them fired, even shooting someone once or twice. Who could blame him though? He was going to have the majority of the people in the world killed off, but who would miss them? Really, he was doing the small portion that would be left a favor. People were idiots, and he was fine._

_Sociopath, Kyle had called him._

_He was _fine.

...

"Put your hand over his eyes again, and don't fall."

Fortunately, the house had been free of any predators. It was surprising, really, since the back door had been open, but he chalked it up to it being because there was nothing _warm _left for them to eat, so they moved on. That didn't mean that others wouldn't come poking around, a fact he was well aware of, so he ordered Pip once more to keep watch while he guided the others to the bedroom he had found; it had windows, but he could push the dresser into place so it was covering them, and it had a lock on the door. Of course, there was also a hole in the roof and the door leading to the bathroom attached to the room had been knocked down, but if they stayed out of sight from any aliens cruising above the house and him and Pip made sure nothing broke in, they should be fine—for now, anyway. It was a solid plan for the moment, and he would use it until he thought of something better.

Of course, getting Tweek into the room would be a problem. The blonde was a wreck already; seeing three mangled bodies would probably cause him to become catatonic, hence the reason Christophe had told Craig to cover his eyes. Still, it would be difficult getting him past the rubble without him hitting his head, and it would take precious seconds that Christophe could be using to barricade the rest of the house.

"Hurry up, hurry up!"

Rushing only seemed to make things worse; Tweek's shaking became more violent, and he did, in fact, hit his head. But they made it through, Craig showing more patience than he would have with anyone else. It ended up being him who would slow them down though.

His eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, so, unlike Tweek, he could actually see—well enough to realize what it was anyway—what was covering the floor: a purple, blood stained shirt with bits of flesh, shades darker than his own, clinging to it; scraps of a body that had only bones, no skin or meat, left for legs; another body sitting in a wheelchair, one with no face. His friends. He was looking at the leftovers of his friends.

He had to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep, albeit shaky, breath.

It wasn't real, none of it. It was one of the stupid Halloween parties Clyde was always trying to drag him to. The blood and other bodily remains on the floor were all fake. Probably cheap, too. If he bothered to take the time to inspect it, which he wouldn't do because he really hated these types of things, he would figure out what it was; sludgy punch or something as equally stupid. The eye he had glimpsed wasn't Token's; it was half of a boiled egg. That wasn't Timmy's body in the wheelchair, it was a dummy. And Jimmy wasn't really missing half of his body. None of it was real.

The sickness in his stomach wasn't any better, and he had to fight to keep from throwing up. Despite this, he opened his eyes; the first thing he saw upon doing so was the bloody "T" that had once belonged to Token's shirt, but he quickly looked away.

"Wh-what is it? GAH!"

Tweek. He had to think of Tweek. He didn't know if he had any other friends _left_.

"Nothing. Come on."

They began to move once more.

...

"So, tell me, Mr. Cartman, why you have summoned my people here."

It had been so easy to do. He had already known of the existence of other life, which had been the hardest part—so many people spend their whole lives in the dark. After that it had mostly been about finding out which _race_ he needed; he couldn't use one that just wanted to watch television or one stupid enough that they worshiped _cows. _He needed a breed of killers, but a breed that also had _ambition_. He needed to find a breed that would help him take over the Earth.

They looked similar enough to the first visitors he had seen, so he could see why the others, after hearing Butters' and, again, Christophe's, descriptions, would think they were the same race. He had been thrown off too at first—until, looking at the one sitting on his bed, he realized that there were details the others had left out; incredibly long limbs, long, sharp nails, red markings on the side of the head and around the eyes. But, more than any of those things, it was the _air _about the thing he noticed—it screamed "danger." Exactly what he needed.

He had found the book he needed on Ebay, of all places. In it were the details he had been looking for; which race he would need and how to summon it properly. All he needed to do for the summoning ritual was draw a certain type of pentagram onto the floor of where he wanted to meet with one of the aliens—preferably his house, since they would avoid hitting it with their weapons then—and bleed on it; the blood would signify that he was the summoner, and he was to be protected. Without him still breathing, they would have to go back to their own realm, after all; he was their gateway to Earth. In return, if they were grateful and didn't try to lock him up somewhere to make sure he didn't change his mind and try to kill himself, which was the only fall back he could think of, he would be the new human king.

Of course, he had also needed the blood of a sacrifice—some girl he had picked up on the side of the road outside of town—but that wasn't even important enough to think of.

"For someone to respect mah authoritah."


	7. Flesh to Flesh

**A/N: **This chapter sucks, the chapter before this sucked, I suck, the next one will probably suck. I apologize.

Have a nice day.

...

_For the first few months Pip was in Hell, he hated Christophe. They were both housed in the palace, one because he had been so **cheerful** and genuinely **happy **to see the prince that the king offered him a room on his first day—Damien didn't make friends easily, Satan had said—and the other. . . well, Christophe had made an impression on the king, but whether it was because of the things he had spouted about God or his tolerance for torture, he didn't know. So, because of this, they had rooms right across the hall from each other—at first. Eventually Pip moved into Damien's room, but that didn't happen until after the boys learned to get along._

_Things didn't improve for a long time. Christophe had figured out during their first meeting that the only thing Pip had against him was his origins, and there wasn't anything he could do to help _that_. Vice versa though? Pip was weak and far too chipper for Christophe's taste. He could understand why Damien only put up with the boy to keep his father from nagging at him about making friends—which, eventually, also changed._

_He also thought that the boy was a liar—he couldn't see Pip firing an arrow—but he was eventually proven wrong on that one, and the other things stopped bothering him after a while. Of course, Pip wasn't weak in **every **sense of the word. Though it was annoying, he could look on the bright side of things, which could become handy when one was caught in a nearly hopeless battle—a talent he would be grateful for in the future._

_He wasn't sure when things changed for either of them. He didn't know if Pip started to look past his heritage before or after he started to ignore how upbeat the blonde was in order to focus on what else there was to him. He didn't know, and he didn't care to analyze it._

_He could, however, point out when he realized he was attracted to Pip—the moment he had first seen the Brit and his prince kiss._

_He could remember clenching his fists, jealousy surging through his veins, but he had let it go. It was no time to be thinking of his dick, after all, not when the person he was apparently interested in was kissing someone that could make his life a literal hell._

...

"We're gonna die! I'm not a Mormon! I'm gonna go to Hell! I need to convert! Oh man, that is WAY too much pressure!"

Like Tweek, Craig had also heard the rumor that only Mormons make it into Heaven. Considering who had started it, he didn't trust it. He didn't bother to try to explain this to Tweek—again—though, knowing it would do no good. Instead, he tried an old, familiar tactic to calm the boy down: touching him.

Tweek was curled up in the corner between Jimmy's bed and his wall, his knees pulled up to his chest, his head on it, his arms over his head in a protective manner. Mindful of scaring his shaking, already horrified friend any more than what he already was, Craig was gentle when he laid a hand on Tweek's uninjured arm, though he was firm in trying to remove it from its position.

"We're not going to die. Look at me."

He had to repeat the command a few times, but eventually, Tweek raised his head a bit, and his wide, watery eyes met Craig's dry ones. It was a definite start, but he needed to do more. He kept tugging on his friend's arm, and, though he did so reluctantly, Tweek eventually removed it, along with the other one, from its position, and raised his head off of his knees completely, apparently finding something in Craig's gaze or voice soothing, something that he could trust.

He was trusting Craig. _Tweek _was trusting someone.

The sickness in Craig's stomach didn't lessen.

"Good. You just need something to distract yourself with."

Craig's hands moved to Tweek's face, and, not for the first time, he wiped away the blonde's tears, trying to calm him as much as he possibly could.

_'I don't know why he can't figure out I'm in love with him.'_

A shaky breath. Tweek had stopped crying for the moment, at least.

"Like what? Ack!"

Craig had made the same suggestion to Tweek in the past, but nothing he had tried would work. He doubted anything in Jimmy's room would do the trick, especially considering a good deal of the dead boy's stuff was just as broken as he himself now was. One thing did come to mind though, one thing he had thought of for years but had never actually tried.

_'Fuck it.'_

They could die at any time, after all, and it could be his last chance.

Without actually saying what he was going to do but making sure he was moving slowly so he wouldn't freak his friend out, Craig leaned in.

"Craig? What—"

When their mouths met in a kiss, Craig thought that Tweek was going to object and then panic; the blonde was extremely tense, and, after all, that _would _be his luck. He was pleasantly surprised when both of Tweek's arms went around his neck and he began to kiss back. Tweek's knees were also down, and he was—Craig's mouth fell open the tiniest bit in surprise, and his friend took advantage of it, though hesitantly, shyly slipping his tongue in.

Tweek had moved onto his lap, which had been what the big shock was. Tweek Tweak was kissing him, was rubbing his tongue against his own, was on his fucking _lap_. Tweek, who didn't like to be touched but made allowances for _him_. Tweek, who he had been in love with for years. It clearly wasn't panic that was making the boy behave in such an uncharacteristic way either, because Tweek was still Tweek; he was avoiding Craig's teeth in the kiss, probably afraid his tongue would be caught in his friend's braces.

Jimmy's leg braces had been bloody.

Tweek wasn't the only one who needed a distraction.

As a hand, shaky but not deterred, pulled his hat off and found its way into his hair, he thought that he had waited far too long, had wasted too much of his life, not doing this. His own hands had slipped under Tweek's shirt and were rubbing up and down the expanse of his back, touching as much of the skin there as they possibly could. He was careful not to let his nails scratch too hard, mindful of how Tweek would react to his skin breaking; there were germs under his nails, after all, and germs could be contagious.

He pushed Tweek's shirt up, and the blonde got the hint; he unwrapped his arms from around Craig's neck long enough for the raven-haired boy to pull both of their shirts off, tossing them somewhere he didn't bother to pay attention to. One of Tweek's arms found its way around his best friend's neck once more, but the hand belonging to the other one found something _better _to do; he unbuttoned and then unzipped Craig's trousers.

The distraction had worked.

...

"I'm awful worried about Eric too, Kyle."

He stopped pacing long enough to look at Butters. The blonde's worry was written all over his face. He might have even been _shaking_, though that could be because of everything that had happened that day, not just worry over Cartman, but Kyle didn't care to watch him long enough to figure it out.

"I'm not worried. If the fatass gets hurt, it's his own fault."

If Cartman didn't come back soon, he was going to go upstairs to see if he was still breathing.

...

They were seated side-by-side on the floor together, their backs resting against the broken plaster that had fallen when the house was struck. Perhaps it was a dangerous move, but Christophe had boarded up the rest of the house that had needed it earlier, and the only real worry was the door they were guarding, the door in front of them.

"This is exciting, but I do wish we had something to do while we wait for something to happen. A game, perhaps. Oh, would you play a game with me?"

His friend was excited at the prospect, but Christophe wasn't too thrilled over it. He had never been one for games, and playing one would take too much of his attention. He was a hypocrite in that manner though, because, though he shouldn't have been, he was thinking with his dick.

Though it was quiet, they had better hearing than most, a fact Pip didn't even realize yet, and they could both hear what was going on in the other room.

"It sounds like they have the right idea."

He took a drag on his cigarette, but it did nothing to calm him.

Damien was in Hell. He was alone with Pip. They were _alone_, and though it was good to be loyal, he knew what—who—he wanted—and he was sitting so close that their fingers were brushing together.

He knew an opportunity when it presented itself.

They made eye contact.

"That does sound rather lovely."

That was all that he needed; he used the floor to put his cigarette out, and his mouth met the one belonging to the other boy. It was even softer than had remembered; he had placed his hand over it while they were hiding hours earlier, and this had been on his mind then, but the timing hadn't been right.

Unfortunately, it still wasn't right, because that was when they heard screaming.

...

He had been kissing Tweek's neck when he felt it—that feeling from his dream. It was worse while awake, hitting him like a physical blow to the stomach. He didn't stop what he was doing though; like most things he found unpleasant, he tried to ignore it, hoping it would just leave him alone. He knew better though. He could barely focus, he was so dizzy. He was seeing red, too, and he had to close his eyes; so much fucking _red_. It was worse than the floor had been.

There was a pounding in his ears—his heartbeat? He couldn't tell if it was speeding up or slowing down, and for a split second, he felt like it was driving him insane.

He tried to focus harder on what he was doing, his kisses turning into licks. Tweek tasted good—better than he could ever remember anything tasting—and he wanted more; it was easier to focus on the skin now, so much easier. He was biting, and the blood gushing into his mouth tasted _so_ much better than it had a right to, and—

—and he couldn't stop. That's what it came down to. He didn't realize that Tweek was screaming; he couldn't hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat, which was, in fact, slowing down. He knew that what he was eating was human flesh, but the part of his brain that would usually find such a thing repulsive had been shut off. And even when his heart completely _stopped_, he couldn't.

He didn't want to.

It took a bullet in his brain, courtesy of Christophe, to make him, but by then it was too late. He was gone the moment Mrs. Donovan bit him, and as surely as the infection had spread through his veins then, it was Tweek's turn.

...

"I'M INFECTED! HE INFECTED ME! OH MAN, OH MAN, _**OH MAN**_!"

Tweek was pressed once more against Jimmy's wall, but this time he wasn't curled up; he was standing, and instead of covering his head, he was pressing a hand against his neck, the other pulling his hair out. His whole body was shaking; he was hyperventilating. He couldn't breath; he wasn't even turning yet, but he couldn't _breath_, and he was going to _die_, he _**knew he was going to **__**die**_.

"SHOOT ME!"

Christophe cocked his gun, ready to do just that. He wasn't an idiot, after all, and he knew that there was a chance that the blonde was right. He was a problem in waiting, and Christophe didn't need anymore _problems_.

"NO! WAIT! WAIT! LET ME DO IT! WHAT IF YOU MESS UP? AND I HAVE TO BLEED TO DEATH ON THE FLOOR? **GAH**!"

Christophe took a step closer to his target, moving away from the bedroom door. Pip was following after him, but he made sure to block him from actually getting into the room; the Brit was too nice, and Christophe had a feeling he would protest. Again, the thought that his friend would have made a poor soldier came to mind.

"No way in hell. What is stopping you from shooting us if I do that?"

He took another step. Tweek tried to press himself further into the wall, but it did no good.

"W-why would I do that? I definitely wouldn't get into Heaven then!"

Tweek finally sunk to his knees. He was still shaking, still crying, still _dying_. He wouldn't be getting into Heaven; he wasn't a Mormon. He would be with Craig soon though, and that would be something—but it was something he was too panicked to think of at the moment, and the blood loss was making him light-headed.

The safety on the gun was off.

"I'm going to go to Hell! I'M GOING TO GO TO HELL!"

He was so scared. He didn't even hear something break into the house, he was so scared; his fear, whimpers, and screams blocked it out—but Christophe heard, and he was out of time and patience for Tweek.

"Let me do it! LET ME DO IT! LET ME—"

The shot rang out.

Tweek's body fell to the ground.

His hand touched Craig's.

He wasn't alone.

"Come on. Let's go see what that was."


	8. Down With the Sickness

"Heavens, Damien. . ."

The Brit was sitting on the prince's lap, his ass pressing down on his lover's crotch; his legs were spread wide, and Damien was fondling his crotch through his jeans. It was probably a bit painful—Damien had sharp nails—but the blonde didn't seem to mind; moans were slipping past his lips. His neck was leaning back, resting on Damien's shoulder, and the raven-haired boy was licking at it with his forked tongue; he caught Kenny's gaze—it was only natural he would be staring—before smirking, his sharp teeth flashing, and biting into Pip's neck. The moaning turned into a groan, but Damien didn't stop, and Pip didn't ask him to.

This was normal for them—and apparently Satan, too, because he wasn't reacting to his son's behavior at all, despite the fact that others were in the room. He probably encouraged it, Kenny knew; Damien was showing affection in his own way, though it wouldn't seem that way to an outsider. He wouldn't fool around with just anyone, after all. Kenny couldn't remember the prince ever showing an interest in anyone else.

Christophe, on the other hand, was showing a reaction, though it was a subtle one; his brow had furrowed the minute the pair had started to become sexual in front of him—he had joined them after they had found the king—and he had to put an effort into not clenching his fists. It was surprising considering he was a mercenary, so he should have had better control over his body, but Kenny doubted the others would notice; Pip and Damien were far too wrapped up with each other, and Satan was in deep thought. If he hadn't been adept at reading people, something he had picked up during his days as a superhero, he might have missed it.

It was interesting and more than a bit sexy, but he would have to think on it later, on a different visit to Hell. He might even try to get to actually _know _the boys, but at the moment, he needed to concentrate—though Pip spreading his legs further was making it difficult.

"I was wondering when you would come to me with this, child."

His attention was finally drawn away from the couple on the couch, along with Christophe's. Pip was also trying to listen—he was still curious about his double—but it was difficult with Damien marking his skin.

"One of your friends is the cause of all of this."

He didn't need to ask which one. He should have expected it from the moment the town went under attack.

It was then that he felt a familiar tug.

...

He had gotten used to materializing wherever he wanted to when he went back to Earth over the years; his house, the hospital if his mother had been pregnant, next to his friends. It usually depended on what he was thinking about when the pull on his body took over, letting him know that he was about to vanish. Because of this, it came as a surprise to him when he realized that he wasn't standing inside of Eric Cartman's house but in front of a wrecked one somewhere else in town. Assuming that the boy had just relocated, he began to shove at the house's front door, trying to push at whatever was keeping it from opening. He needed to talk to Cartman.

He managed to get the door open enough to peer in, but he stopped trying to budge it when he realized that a gun was trained on him. With its click came a mental one—he had come back home to South Park, that was certain, and he had found his way to Christophe and Pip. Looks like he would get to know them after all, assuming Christophe didn't send him back to Hell.

He hated having his brains blown out.

"Say something."

He had seen a zombie movie once with a similar scene, but he didn't comment; he doubted Christophe would know what he was talking about, and even if he did, Kenny didn't think he would appreciate the comparison; the soldier didn't seem to have a sense of humor.

He stepped back a bit and held his hands up in a sign of submission.

"You're still in Hell."

...

"Talk."

He was backed up into a corner, the gun still focused on him, but he wasn't afraid. Christophe had let him into the house and was clearly interested in what he was saying, so he was safe—for now. Besides, he had a feeling that Pip would protest if the soldier tried to harm him; he had seen the way that Christophe had watched the boy in Hell, after all.

He didn't know about Craig and Tweek laying in the other room, their brains splattered on the floor.

He did talk. He sunk to the floor and got comfortable, and then he told them everything that he knew.

Eric Cartman had an immortal, a trained soldier, and an archer against him, but they were up against a whole world and then some.

It was only a matter of time before something had to give—and though Kenny didn't know it, it had been decided already—in stone, no change possible—who would break first.

...

It was still night time when the change started to really effect him; he had felt it before, had felt a rolling sickness in his stomach and a fuzziness in his head, but his cheerfulness didn't dim because of it. He didn't want Christophe to worry about him—he knew that the boy cared about him, and if he knew that he wasn't feeling terribly well, he would only be more stressed—so he kept it to himself. Still though, it was becoming hard to focus on anything.

There was also an anger inside of him, something he had never felt before. The urge to mangle something was horrifying, but he couldn't shake it off. He briefly wondered if he was going through the same thing Craig had, but he couldn't recall any of the dead beings after them getting close enough to touch him. There wasn't a scratch on him, but he felt like something had tore into his body, and he wanted to do the same to something, anything—any_one_.

Pip rested his head on his knees, unknowingly mirroring a position Tweek had been in not even an hour earlier. His fingers moved to his hair, running through it; his hat had fallen to the floor when he sat down, but he hadn't noticed, and he couldn't bother to put it back on now. His fingers untangled from his hair, and his arms wrapped around his stomach; he was having trouble being still. It felt like something was trying to break free from every blood cell in his body.

Christophe's gaze moved from Kenny's sleeping form on the floor to Pip's crouched one.

He knew how the boy felt.

...

An hour passed by slowly. Christophe paced the floor while the other two boys stayed in their same positions, though Pip kept squirming. He couldn't get comfortable—he couldn't find a way to sit that would make the pain lessen any. Christophe took the opposite approach; while Pip sat on the ground, he tried to walk whatever was running through his system out of it. It wasn't working any better than what Pip was doing though, and after another ten minutes passed in silence, he gave up.

He strode over to his friend, his footsteps creaking on the floor. Pip, hearing him coming, raised his head, and they made eye contact. The blonde sat up and lowered his knees a bit. His smile, though it was shaky, didn't seemed forced; he was happy that Christophe was with him, and even if he was in immense pain, he wasn't too far lost in it that he couldn't let his protector know it—even if it hurt too much to actually say. Christophe placed his hands on Pip's knees, and the boy's smile became a bit more firm.

"Listen—listen to me."

Pip was trying, he really was. There was a roaring in his ears—it was his heartbeat, but unlike Craig's, it was speeding up, not getting ready to stop—but he _tried_.

"They did something to us, those bastards. I know what you want, and do not fight it. We could very possibly die otherwise."

The aliens. He hadn't considered that, but he knew that Christophe was probably right; they could have very easily done something to their bodies when they brought them back to life.

"We will kill him. We both have seen him around the castle enough to know that what he says is true; he will come back, and he will forgive you for this."

He couldn't do it though. He wasn't surprised that Christophe was giving in, though he would normally fight tooth and nail to _not _give in to anyone trying to control him; the urge was ready to consume _him_, and he knew that Christophe's own soul—because, along with his body, that was what was beginning to rot—was far darker than his own. The soldier had a will power far greater than Pip had, so he could last for a bit longer, but he was more _willing _to give in to it. The idea of killing someone didn't bother him as much as it did Pip, especially if it meant living—and Christophe wanted to live.

In the end, it was Pip's call.

...

Half an hour passed.

Pip was shaking.

He couldn't take it anymore.

Christophe had left him alone to see if there was anything useful upstairs.

Kenny never stood a chance.

...

His thoughts were as broken as his will when he stood, still shaking, and made his way over to the boy asleep on the floor. Kenny didn't stir, not until it was too late; he wasn't expecting a thing. His eyes shot open, so surprised but at the same time not, like he had died so many times a part of him would never be able to be surprised again, when Pip's foot pressed down on his neck. It wasn't enough though; Pip wanted—_needed_—blood, and he couldn't wait any longer.

He pressed until the boy passed out, and then he grabbed him by his jacket and lifted him up, slamming him against the wall; Christophe was sure to have heard, but Pip couldn't wait long enough for the boy to join him, though he could already hear the footsteps rushing towards him, _worried _about him. It was almost funny.

Hell, who was he kidding? It _was_ funny, and as he slammed Kenny against the wall repeatedly, he laughed.

It still wasn't enough though; there wasn't enough red. His nails—had they always been that sharp?—tore into Kenny's skin. He held the boy against the wall as he pulled his arm off, blood covering him, and when Kenny woke up once more and started to scream, he stuffed the limb into his mouth, silencing him but for a few whimpers.

The violence went on. He could feel Christophe watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, not until it was finished. He finally dropped Kenny to the ground, and as the thump from it resounded through the room, he met his friend's gaze.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."

He had to be a sight, he realized. He was soaked in blood; his hair, his face, his hands, his clothes, everything had red on it. It wasn't a sight that Christophe seemed to _mind _terribly though, because as he approached him, he showed no hostility, only interest and . . . arousal.

"It is not a big deal. We will find another, if we have to."

Pip didn't want to. The urge, whatever it had been, was starting to wear off. Christophe, on the other hand. . .

"Watching you was almost enough for myself, but. . ."

The arousal was still in Christophe's eyes when he reached Pip.

...

He was back in the palace when he came to.

He hated his life.

...

They were kissing again, but there was an urgency in it that their first kiss had lacked. Christophe was still wired on whatever had possessed them before, and he pressed Pip against the closest wall to them, not mindful of the fact that they were extremely close to a dead body. He was standing in blood, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that either, the animalistic urge to fuck taking him completely over just as Pip's urge to kill had. He was convinced doing so would make him feel better—would make the pain running through him fade away—and even if it didn't, he had wanted this for years, and now it was his chance; he was never one to miss a good opportunity.

The kiss was rough, teeth clashing and lips being bitten, but Christophe had seen Pip comply to a lot rougher treatment from Damien before—and that thought made him want to take the boy even more. It was something consuming him, this urge; he didn't feel completely human, but he didn't stop to think on it—he couldn't.

Pip's shirt was ripped off, the remains pushed off of his shoulders, before Christophe sunk to his knees; he almost had as much blood on him as Pip did, but it spurred him on even more when he realized it. He undid Pip's trousers and, along with the boy's underwear, pulled them down to his thighs. It was a delicious sight in front of him, Pip's dick, half-erect and ready to be taken into his mouth. He did just that, taking as much of the organ in as he could without choking. He could feel it swell, could feel it become fully erect, as he sucked on it.

Pip was beautiful, covered in blood and moaning his name. Christophe's hands dipped into the blood, and he used them to spread Pip's thighs, smearing the liquid over smooth, white skin. He covered his hands in the red gold once more, taking more of Pip's cock into his mouth while doing so, before reaching behind the blonde's balls and pressing his fingers against the puckered hole there.

He wondered if there was something in Kenny McCormick's blood—if taking in the blood of an immortal would keep the pain from bothering them again—while he stretched Pip open with his fingers, using the blood as lube. He felt better—the fact that he could think properly was proof enough—but he didn't stop what he was doing, didn't find it grotesque, yet; instead, he pulled off from Pip's dick to jack the boy with his free hand, smearing red over it, while he licked and nipped at the thighs in front of him. Eventually though, he licked at the head of Pip's cock once, twice, a third time, before withdrawing his head and his fingers, taking his dick out of his trousers, soaking it with blood, and sinking Pip down on top of it.

They fucked into the morning, even though Pip was sobbing half-way through. Christophe knew that he wasn't hurting his friend; the boy had sex with the anti-Christ, so he doubted that a _human _could do much damage. That was the problem though—he had the nagging sense that they _weren't _human, that when they were brought back, something was _tampered _with. He had considered it before, but after what they did—what _Pip _did—he was sure. Something was wrong with them, and he doubted there was anything either of them could do to fix it. The urge to screw, to hurt, to bask in blood, to _sin_, was leaving him, as it had left Pip, but he couldn't stop yet. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to Pip's chest, and he hoped that as small as the action was, it would help soothe the Brit somewhat. When Pip's arms went around his shoulders, he knew that the blonde was trying to do the same for him.


	9. When Everything's Made To Be Broken

Gregory had been playing a game of chess by himself, practicing for an upcoming tournament, when he heard the knock on his door. It came as a surprise to him; he hadn't been expecting any visitors that day, and as far as he knew, his mother wasn't either. Deciding that it must be important—he didn't have any friends who would just drop by unannounced and his mother was working this time of day, a should-be known fact to anyone who would take the time to come see her—he abandoned his game, a knight falling down as his fingers brushed over it when he stood from his chair.

A much bigger surprise came to him once he opened the door and actually saw the visitor standing there.

"I dare say, I knew—"

He had always suspected that there was alien life out there, filling the vast space above his own tiny planet. Others had laughed at him for it over the years, but the proof was there if one just knew where to look, if one knew what to look _at_. This belief, along with courage that came to him naturally, caused him to remain calm when his eyes met with a black, interest-filled pair looming above him. Really, he should have been scared; he should have ran, should have tried to get as far away as possible. Such a thing had never been in his nature though, and he would exhibit no such behavior now. During the days that would follow, after he had been raped repeatedly, he would try to run, but for now, he just stood there, pleased with himself that he had been right all along—not that he had ever doubted himself.

It was while he was smirking up at the beast that its hand, lethal and quick, smacked his head against the door frame. His collapse was enough to shake the remaining chess pieces, and as Wendy Testaburger, towns away, died, his queen fell, hitting the ground, just as the girl he sometimes still thought of did.

A knight had fallen but wasn't crushed, not yet; he was slung over a shoulder and carried away, ripe for testing, his death put off for another day.

Gregory didn't have the choice that Wendy had been given.

...

He used the shoulder strap he kept attached to his shovel to adjust the tool so it was resting comfortably against his back and shoulder blades; it wouldn't be good to get distracted, and being hit in the back of the head by a shovel tended to do that to one. As his gaze slid to Pip, he doubted he could keep his mind on the mission though, shovel or not.

His friend—his lover now—was a mess. He had replaced his own bloody, torn shirt with one of Jimmy's over-larged, clean ones; it was a waste of time in Christophe's opinion, but the blonde needed something to keep his mind off of the fact that he had killed someone before while Christophe counted how much ammo they had—which wasn't much. His hair was stained with blood, and they didn't have time for him to wash it out. His emotional state though, that was where the real damage had been done. Someone as kind-hearted as Pip couldn't just kill someone and not be a wreck about it. He was trying his best to keep from breaking down about it though, and Christophe was grateful for it.

Of course, he knew that his lover was probably suffering from the same headache and nausea that he himself was, but Pip didn't comment on it if it was true, so Christophe kept it to himself. He didn't want to worry the Brit, and he didn't need any more _distractions. _As he caught sight of Pip's hand clutching his stomach, he knew that that would not be the case though, that life was going to be the hateful bitch it usually was.

He cocked his gun.

"Are you ready?"

He was going to make Eric Cartman feel every bit as shitty as he did and then some.

...

"Oh—damn it."

He stopped pacing once more to look at Butters. The blonde had never taken his eyes off of him, and Kyle didn't know if he was grateful for the concern or irritated at it.

Grateful. He was definitely grateful.

Butters could very well be his only friend left, so looking over any irritation he felt would definitely be the best choice.

He took long strides to reach the boy, closing the small gap between them in a short amount of time. He had been right before; Butters was shaking, and it was obvious now that he actually took the time to look. His hands on the boy's shoulders seemed to calm him though, and he felt a small amount of pride at being able to at least help _someone_, small as the action in doing so was.

"I'm going up there, okay, dude? Stay here. I know you'll want to come and help, but stay here."

He couldn't afford losing one more person.

...

"So we're cool then, bra?"

He had done it, he was sure; he had gotten what he wanted. No mother to do it for him, to _fuck him_. No Kenny or Stan to be the pussies they were; he knew from the very beginning that they would try to stop him from going through with it. Kyle would too, of course, but Kyle was less expendable, and he was sure he could convince the redhead to see his way in the end. Butters would be easy enough to take care of. But that would come later, sometime after the thing sitting on his bed confirmed that he was the new human king of the world—and it would be a throne that he had earned by himself. He _deserved _to be king. He deserved the power, authority.

He was so close to victory that he could taste it—and it was better than tears.

Would Kyle cry for the old world? Doubtful. Butters probably would though, the fag.

He was too proud of himself at the moment to let Butters bring his mood down. He would be free of every nuisance soon enough. Every amusement park line would be free, every guy his mother had slept with would be dead, the Chinese would all be gone, gingers, Kyle aside, would be killed off—along with the Jews. Of course, he knew that some humans were still alive—it was one of the things that he had discussed with Logas—but he would allow it; he would need people to program games and provide other sources of entertainment; the king couldn't be bored, after all. If anyone bothered him, he would just have them shot. Easy.

He didn't know that the aliens were keeping humans for themselves to test on and rape; the human body, especially the brain, was far too interesting to _not _explore. But he wouldn't care as long as they were kept out of his way.

Kenny was the only real problem he could think of. The blonde would definitely be back; it was only a matter of _when_. He knew that his friend would try to bring him down. He didn't want to keep killing the boy; it would become annoying far too quickly. He could lock Kenny up and feed him with a feeding tube, having his mouth fixed so he didn't bite through his tongue. . .

He had forgotten about Christophe and Pip.

The alien uncrossed its legs and stood. As it reached out to shake his hand, the image of it in a business suit came to him. It even had the firm shake of a businessman, though its nails did cut his skin. He ignored it though, knowing that calling his soon-to-be partner an asshole wasn't entirely safe, at least not yet.

"It's a deal, Mr. Cartman."

The blood from Eric's hand dripped to the floor, and, once more, splattered on the pentagram drawn there. The deal was sealed.

...

They slipped quietly inside of the house once more. The idea of shooting his way in had come to him, something spiteful he could do to Cartman, but he quickly dismissed it; it was unnecessary, and he needed to save his ammo. It was untelling how long he would be stuck on Earth with the walking dead if his intended target wasn't inside. He didn't bother to lock the door behind his companion; if Cartman was inside, their job would be quickly done and then, hopefully, the dead would fall and they could leave, and if he wasn't, well, Christophe doubted that the aliens would allow the building to stand much longer, not wanting it to attract refuges.

Once inside, the sound of hurried footsteps was evident; he nodded in the direction that it had came from—the kitchen—and the hold on his gun tightened.

"You go check it out. I will look for him in the basement, the coward."

...

Kyle took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what could happen—though it didn't help; there was nothing that could have actually prepared him for seeing Kenny's innards spread out over Cartman's floor, nor was there anything that could have prepared him for seeing what had caused such a mess.

If he was asked later how he had ended up cornered in Eric's kitchen, he wouldn't be able to say; he could only remember running. It wasn't that panic had consumed him; he had been through so many other dangerous situations, had come so close to dying countless times, and hadn't been taken over by fear before. The instinct to escape had simply kicked in, though his other instincts afterward had failed him; he ended up cornered, trapped against a wall and counter.

He wasn't going to just give up and die though.

He picked up the closest weapon to him—a knife out of the sink—and held it up to his chest, ready to strike out the minute that Mr. Marsh ran for him—but it was unnecessary. The zombie lurched towards him, but before it came in cutting range, Kyle heard a sound, and the reanimated corpse fell to its knees, landing not even a foot from him.

"That was a rather close call."

...

"It's an interesting planet you have here. The people seem to be—"

A shot resounded through the house, interrupting Logas mid-sentence. He smirked at it, knowing that carnage would soon follow, something he could greatly appreciate. Eric spun around at the sound though, facing the bedroom door, missing the alien's sadistic expression. If he hadn't, he would have realized sooner than what he did that he was in trouble.

"What was that?"

Another shot rang out, spurring him into moving to the door. He cracked it, worried but not enough so to go into a panic and lose his wits; his anger he couldn't handle, but he was a quick thinker. He was fine. Everything would be fine. He just needed to figure out what was going on and think of a way to control the situation. It would all be _fine_.

Everything was slipping out of his control, and he didn't even realize it yet.

"Did those assholes break into my house again?"

He kept a gun under his matress that would be put into use if that was the case—and surely enough, it was. He had come too far for all of his work to be undone by a pair of French _losers _that couldn't even survive long enough to—there was a crash somewhere else in his house, and, following it, a scream.

His heart sped up.

"Kahl?"

He opened the door further but didn't step out. If Kyle was in trouble—no. No, it would be okay. If anything happened that went against his plans, he would just have it fixed.

He closed the door, and, after locking it, made his way back to the pentagram; it was unnecessary, but it was reassuring to stand next to his work, to be reminded of all that he had accomplished. It surely didn't have anything to do with the fact that his house was being torn apart and he was _scared_, or the fact that if anything broke through his door, he would be safer next to the alien.

Logas chose to say nothing of his proximity. His expression had become a bored one, and Eric didn't expect a thing.

"As I was saying, the people here seem to be more intelligent than we had suspected. It's a shame so many of them are going to die. There's one in particular that I wanted to tinker with myself, but he is, sadly, off limits because of our deal—the one that you marked for yourself. The—what is the term?—Jewish boy, not the other one. It's quite a shame that he's going to be ate alive, Mr. Cartman; there are so many other exciting ways to have one die. Such potential wasted. You really should take better care of your things."

Despite what a shame it supposedly was to Logas, he seemed rather uninterested; he was looking at the blood under his nails, not even bothering to glance up at Eric. The brunette didn't think anything of this though; he was too hung up in disbelief.

"You can just bring him back if he dies."

He was not going to panic. It would be okay; everything would be _okay_. Kyle would be—Kyle would be _fine_. Pissed off that he had died, but he would be _**fine**_. Because, if he wasn't fine, then everything that Eric had done would be for nothing. He would have a world, but it would be so utterly boring and lifeless and _Kyle-less_, and what was the point if Kyle wasn't around? What was he supposed to _do_? What—

No. Everything would be okay. He would make sure that it was.

Logas looked up at him finally, catching his gaze. There was amusement there, obvious now that Eric was looking.

"Now, now, Mr. Cartman. Even we cannot bring the dead back to life. That is an impossible feat. Surely you bothered to read that in your many books?"

There had been only one book, and he hadn't. It still didn't add up though.

"But Frenchie and—"

Logas cut him off, his smirk returning.

"Not everything is as it seems. You of all people should realize _that_."

The jab at his betrayal didn't bother him; even if he wasn't in a state of shock and quickly forming fury, it wouldn't have. He had betrayed enough people—mainly Kyle—that such a thing didn't sting; it never had.

"We cannot re-create life, at least not the way that you are expecting. We can raise his corpse once more, but he will not be as you wish for him to be. The blonde one, either. They are not gone yet, but they will be soon enough. The mindless drones that we _have _brought back to life will be descending upon this house in less than a minute. There is no time to save either of them, not if we want to protect _you_, and that is our top priority. Now, come on, we have to go."

He didn't know what he was planning—to hide in the basement, to demand that Logas save Kyle and Butters—but as he turned and lunged for his bedroom door once more, the alien latched onto his shoulder, sharp nails sinking into the flesh there, and he was transported away.

Kyle started banging on his door not even twenty seconds later.


End file.
